


* 






THE CHILDREN’S HOUR 

IN TEN VOLUMES 
ILLUSTRATED 


VOLUME IX 













Telling the bees (pag-e 159) 



<§> <§> 



Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower. 
Comes a pause in the days occupations, that is known as the Childrens Hour. 




LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies; Received 

SEP 2b 1907 

Copyr^ht Entry 

A A* W 

OLASS XXc. No, 

COPY' a. 



COPYRIGHT 1907 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



THE FIRST EDITION OF THE CHILDREN’S 
HOUR IS LIMITED TO 1000 NUMBERED 
COPIES, OF WHICH THIS IS 


S -at, *,*/£/ 


NOTE 


A LL rights in poems in this volume are reserved by the 
holders of the copyright. The publishers and others 
named in the subjoined list are the proprietors, either in their 
own right or as agents for the authors, of the poems taken 
from the works enumerated, of which the ownership is hereby 
acknowledged. The editor takes this opportunity to thank 
both authors and publishers for the ready generosity with 
which they have allowed her to include these poems in “The 
Children’s Hour.” 

“The Puritan’s Guest and Other Poems,” by J. G. Hol- 
land; published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

“A Child’s Garden of Verse,” by Robert Louis Stevenson; 
published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

“A Little Book of Western Verse,” by Eugene Field; pub- 
lished by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

“Poems,” by Charles G. D. Roberts; published by L. C. 
Page & Company. 

“The Complete Poetical Works of H. W. Longfellow;” 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poetic Studies,” and “Songs of the Silent World,” by 
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps; published by Houghton, Mifflin 
& Company. 

“A. Pocketful of Posies,” by Abbie Farwell Brown; pub- 
lished by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poems,” by Edmund Clarence Stedman; published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 


v 


NOTE 


) 


“New Songs and Ballads,” by Nora Perry; published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich;” published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Ballads and Other Verses,” by James T. Fields; pub- 
lished by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Little-Folk Lyrics,” by Frank Dempster Sherman; pub- 
lished by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell;” 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whit- 
tier;” published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Complete Poetical Works of John Townsend Trow- 
bridge;” published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poems,” by John Godfrey Saxe; published by Houghton, 
Mifflin & Company. 

“The Complete Poems of Bret Harte;” published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Colonial Ballads, Sonnets, and Other Verse,” by Mar- 
garet J. Preston; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Com- 
pany. 

“The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes; ” 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Under the Beech Tree,” by Arlo Bates; published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poems,” by Ralph Waldo Emerson; published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Poetical Works of Lucy Larcom;” published by 
Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“The Singing Leaves,” by Josephine Preston Peabody; 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 


vi 


NOTE 

“Poems,” by Maurice Thompson; published by Hough- 
ton, Mifflin & Company. 

“In the Young World” and “In Sunshine Land,” by 
Edith M. Thomas ; published by Houghton, Mifflin & 
Company. 

“Stories and Poems for Children,” by Celia Thaxter; 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poems of the Household,” by Margaret E. Sangster; 
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. 

“Poems,” by Helen Hunt Jackson; published by Little, 
Brown & Company. 

“Poems,” by Emily Dickinson; published by Little, 
Brown & Company. 

“Outdoor Studies, and Poems,” by Thomas Wentworth 
Higginson; published by Houghton, Mifflin, & Company. 














CONTENTS 


TO THE CHILDREN 

POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 

- The Children’s Hour . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Baby George Macdonald 

Babyhood Josiah Gilbert Holland 

s' The Child and the Piper William Blake 

Hiawatha’s Childhood . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

r The Dumb Soldier Robert Louis Stevenson 

Bees Frank Dempster Sherman 

** “ Did you speak ? ” Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 

S. P. C. T. T Abbie Farwell Brown 

‘ What the Winds bring . . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 

At the Party Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 

A Family Reunion Abbie Farwell Brown 

' A Child Ballad Charles Kingsley 

• • Boston Boys Nora Perry 

■ The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

' The Leak in the Dike a Phoebe Cary 

The Ballad of Baby Bell . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
' The Captain’s Daughter James T. Fields 

■ Little Boy Blue Eugene Field 

The Land of Story Books . . . Robert Louis Stevenson 

Bed in Summer Robert Louis Stevenson 

Ghost Fairies Frank Dempster Sherman 

■ Daisies Frank Dempster Sherman 

■ Sleep, Baby, sleep From the German 

- A Child’s Thought of God . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

The First Snow-Fall James Russell Lowell 

The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Whittier 


xix 

3 

5 

6 

8 

9 

12 

14 

14 

16 

17 

17 

20 

22 

23 

26 

30 

36 

39 

40 

41 

43 

43 

44 

45 

46 

46 

48 


IX 


CONTENTS 


* Story of the “Barefoot Boy” John Townsend Trowbridge 

The Discoverer Edmund Clarence Stedman 

* The Pied Piper of Hamblin .... Robert Browning 

* The Lamplighter Robert Louis Stevenson 

* Domine, cui sunt Pleiades Curae . Charles G. D. Roberts 

STORY-TELLING POEMS 

* Darius Green and his Flying-Machine 

John Townsend Trowbridge 
The Phantom Ship . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

' Paul Revere’s Ride . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

* How Cyrus laid the Cable .... John Godfrey Saxe 

The Alarmed Skipper James T. Fields 

John Burns of Gettysburg .... Francis Bret Harte 

• The Milan Bird-Cages .... Margaret Junkin Preston 

■ Bishop Hatto and his Mouse Tower . Robert Southey 

The Relief of Lucknow . . Robert Traill Spence Lowell 

King Volmer and Elsie . . . John Greenleaf Whittier 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 

Jean Ingelow 

* The Deacon’s Masterpiece ; or, the Wonderful One- 

Hoss Shay Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Horatius Thomas Babington Macaulay 

Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott 

The Inchcape Rock Robert Southey 

Hervi£ Riel Robert Browning 

Abou Ben Adhem . . . f Leigh Hunt 

' In School-Days John Greenleaf Whittier 

Telling the Bees John Greenleaf Whittier 

Through the Flood on Foot Unknown 

Incident of the French Camp .... Robert Browning 

Lord Ullin’s Daughter Thomas Campbell 

The Shepherd of King Admetus . James Russell Lowell 

Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NfiWS FROM GHENT TO A nr 

Robert Browning 


52 

55 

57 

68 

69 

73 

82 

85 

89 

91 

93 

97 

100 

103 

106 

113 

119 

124 

145 

147 

150 

156 

157 

159 

161 

166 

167 

169 

171 

175 


X 


CONTENTS 


* A Musical Instrument . . . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

- The Forsaken Merman Matthew Arnold 

..The Vision of Sir Launfal . . . James Bussell Lowell 
. Rime of the Ancient Mariner . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

' Robin Hood and Allin a Dale Unknown 

' King John and the Abbot of Canterbury . Unknown 


* Sir Patrick Spens Unknown 

* William of Cloudesl^ Unknown 

'The Heir of Linne Unknown 

‘The Earl o’ Quarterdeck .... George Macdonald 
'The Hunting of the Cheviot Unknown 


NONSENSE VERSE 

• The Owl and the Pussy-Cat Edward Lear 

Market Day Abbie Farwell Brown 

' The Jumblies Edward Lear 

The Quangle Wangle’s Hat Edward Lear 

The Turtle and Flamingo James T. Fields 

Little Billee William Makepeace Thackeray 


SONGS 

* Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Eugene Field 

' Sea Song Allan Cunningham 

• Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 

Stay, stay at Home, my Heart, and rest 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

Song from “ Pippa Passes ” Robert Browning 

The Corn-Song John Greenleaf Whittier 

Break, break, break Alfred Tennyson 

Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 

The Bugle-Song Alfred Tennyson 

> Flow gently, Sweet Afton Robert Burns 

1 The Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley 

> Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns 

' Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn . . . Robert Burns 

Japanese Lullaby Eugene Field 


177 

179 

184 

197 

222 

226 

230 

234 

238 

246 

251 


265 

266 
267 
270 
273 
275 


279 

280 
281 

282 

282 

283 

285 

286 
286 

287 

288 

289 

290 

291 


XI 


CONTENTS 


* Nearer Home Phoebe Cary 

* Canadian Boat-Song Thomas Moore 

* Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore 

Song of Marion’s Men William Cullen Bryant 

Boot and Saddle Robert Browning 

Song of Clan-Alpine Sir Walter Scott 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind . . William Shakespeare 

> Ye Mariners of England Thomas Campbell 

Fairy Song William Shakespeare 

' Sound the Loud Timbrel Thomas Moore 

Hark ! Hark ! the Lark .... William Shakespeare 
, Jog on, jog on William Shakespeare 

< I THINK WHEN I READ THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD 

Jemima Luke 

The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley 

- Crossing the Bar Alfred Tennyson 


292 

293 

294 

295 

297 

298 

299 

300 
302 

302 

303 

303 

304 

305 

306 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 

• While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night 

Nahum Tate 309 

• Christmas Bells Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 310 

A Christmas Carol Josiah Gilbert Holland 311 

' O Little Town of Bethlehem .... Phillips Brooks 312 

• Christmas Alfred Tennyson 314 

• The Three Kings .... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 315 
. Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity John Milton 318 


POEMS OF NATURE 


■* Happy Thought Robert Louis Stevenson 329 

Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant 329 

In March William Wordsworth 332 

' The Rhodora Ralph Waldo Emerson 333 

' Daffodils William Wordsworth 333 

Spring in New England .... James Russell Lowell 334 

To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell 337 

V Little Lamb William Blake 339 


Xil 


CONTENTS 


' Harebells Arlo Bates 

■ The Housekeeper Charles Lamb 

' Little White Lily George Macdonald 

Swinging on a Birch-Tree Lucy Larcom 

' Dartside Charles Kingsley 

Nothing Unknown 

• Flower in the Crannied Wall . . . Alfred Tennyson 

• The Fountain James Russell Lowell 

The Humble-Bee Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Don James T. Fields 

• The Tiger William Blake 

■ The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 

• Wayside Flowers William Allingham 

A Journey Josephine Preston Peabody 

Geist’s Grave Matthew Arnold 

The Kingfisher Maurice Thompson 

■ Autumn among the Birds Edith M. Thomas 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant 
To the Fringed Gentian . . . William Cullen Bryant 

• To a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant 

To a Mouse Robert Burns 

' The Snow-Storm Ralph Waldo Emerson 

‘The Brook Alfred Tennyson 

The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 

' The Sandpiper Celia Thaxter 

' To a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley 

The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Forbearance Ralph Waldo Emerson 

■ Thb Spacious Firmament on High . . . Joseph Addison 


' * POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 

' My Country, ’t is of Thee . . . Samuel Francis Smith 

-The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New Eng- 
land Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

' Concord Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Carmen Bellicosum .... Guy Humphreys McMaster 

xiii 


339 

340 

341 

342 

344 

345 

346 
346 
348 
350 

353 

354 

355 

356 

357 

361 

362 
365 

368 

369 

370 

372 

373 
375 

380 

381 
385 

388 

389 

393 

394 

396 

397 


CONTENTS 


1 The Star-Spangled Banner .... Francis Scott Key 399 
k Battle Hymn of the Republic . . . Julia Ward Howe 400 

Old Ironsides Oliver Wendell Holmes 402 

' O Captain ! My Captain ! Walt Whitman 403 

Boston Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 404 

'O Ship of State! .... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 408 
- Fatherland Sir Walter Scott 409 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 

* Little Kindnesses James Russell Lowell 413 

* Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 413 

Letters Ralph Waldo Emerson 415 

' The Elixir George Herbert 415 

‘ The Builders Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 416 

* A Farewell Charles Kingsley 418 

* Honest Poverty Robert Burns 418 

’ Suppose ! Phoebe Cary 420 

The Bridge Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 421 

" Dinna Chide Margaret Elizabeth Sangster 424 

The Heritage James Russell Lowell 425 

A Thanksgiving to God, for His House . Robert Herrick 427 

» On his Blindness John Milton 429 

The Conqueror’s Grave . . . William Cullen Bryant 430 

* The Unknown Country Dinah Mulock Craik 433 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray 434 

* Grow Old along with me Robert Browning 439 

- The Noble Nature Ben Jonson 439 

' Opportunity Edward Rowland Sill 440 

' To A Child William Wordsworth 440 

' “My Times are in thy Hand” . Anna Lcetitia Waring 441 

' Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 443 

' The Chambered Nautilus . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 446 

Santa Teresa’s Book-Mark Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 447 


OTHER POEMS 

* Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell 451 

The Selkirk Grace Robert Burns 453 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


' The Mountain and the Squirrel Ralph Waldo Emerson 
' Firelight John Greenleaf Whittier 

* The House and the Road . . Josephine Preston Peabody 
' The Village Blacksmith . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

The Wants of Man John Quincy Adams 

Contentment Oliver Wendell Holmes 

• Farmer John John Townsend Trowbridge 

Dorothy Q Oliver Wendell Holmes 

’The Fairies William Allingham 

* The Charge of the Light Brigade . Alfred Tennyson 

On the Loss of the Royal George . . William Cowper 

•The Burial of Sir John Moore .... Charles Wolfe 

. Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell 

Helvellyn Sir Walter Scott 

.The Burial of Moses . . . Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander 

, Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk 

William Cowper 

* Waterloo George Gordon , Lord Byron 

• The Bells Edgar Allan Poe 

The Forging of the Anchor .... Samuel Ferguson 

The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 

The Courtin’ James Russell Lowell 

-The Charcoalman John Townsend Trowbridge 

My Tenants Helen Hunt Jackson 

' Guilielmus Rex Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

• The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold 

The Shandon Bells . . Francis Mahony (“ Father Prout”) 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
The Things I miss .... Thomas Wentworth Higginson 

- A Day Emily Dickinson 

Waiting for the Bugle . . Thomas Wentworth Higginson 


454 

454 

455 

456 
458 
461 
463 
466 
469 
471 
473 

475 

476 

477 
479 

482 

484 

486 

490 

495 

497 

501 

503 

504 

505 
508 

510 

513 

514 

515 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


Telling the Bees (p. 159) Childe Hassam 

Photogravure frontispiece 
Learned of Every Bird its Language . . E. Boyd Smith 10 
“Where the fire can talk to me” ... . M. Cowles 44 
Barefoot Boy, with Cheek of Tan . . . E. H. Garrett 48 
Ran merrily after the Wonderful Music John LaFarge 64 
The Fate of a Nation was riding that Night S. M. Stone 86 
She was a Wonder and Nothing Less . . . Howard Pyle 120 
“As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the 

ground” W. Small 176 

Into his Soul the Vision flew .... Corwin K. Linson 188 

The Albatross did follow Gustave Dor4 200 

“Pippa Passes” L. Leslie Brooke 282 

Old Ironsides ... Marshall Johnson 402 

From the original in possession of B. F. Stevens , Esq., Boston 

Milton dictating to his Daughter Munkacsy 430 

Whittier Kitchen From a photograph by Ordway 454 

The Courtin’ Winslow Homer 498 

















TO THE CHILDREN 


T HIS preface is not meant for all the children, but 
for those only who like to “know why,” and are 
willing to take a little trouble to find out. 

In this book there are some rhymes inserted because 
they are especially amusing or because they tell a story 
so well; but most of the volume is made up of true 
poetry. Just what true poetry is, no one has been able 
to put into words, because what makes the special ex- 
cellence of one poem may not appear at all in another. 
If you read the lines from “ Snowbound,” for instance, 
(page 454), you will notice how perfectly Whittier has 
painted the picture of the old fireplace; but it would 
not be true to declare that a real poem must always 
paint a picture, for such a rule would shut out Long- 
fellow’s “Psalm of Life” (page 413), Burns’s “For a’ 
That and a’ That ” (page 418), Shakespeare’s “ Blow, 
Blow, Thou Winter Wind ” (page 299), and many others 
that, definitions or no definitions, you feel and know 
to be true poems. However, even if poetry cannot be 
defined, you can learn to recognize it when you come 
to it, and you can get a great deal of pleasure not only 
from merely reading it, but also from noting in different 
poems what it is that you enjoy. 

Frequently the words themselves are pleasing. Some- 
times they give us pleasure because they are in such per- 
xix 


TO THE CHILDREN 


feet harmony with the thought. In Longfellow’s “ Old 
Clock on the Stairs” (page 510), the refrain, — 

“ Forever — never! 

Never — forever ! ” 

sounds like the slow, solemn ticking of an old clock. 
Poe writes of the sleighbells (page 486) : — 

“ How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With the crystalline delight.” 

He writes of the tolling bells : — 

“ Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! ” 

A foreigner who did not understand a word of English 
could not help knowing that Poe’s first lines were about 
something light and merry, the second about something 
grave and sad. Sometimes words give us pleasure 
because they not only harmonize with the thought, but 
express its meaning so perfectly. Thomas Gray wanted 
to express the idea of a tired man walking slowly, and 
he wrote, — 

“The ploughman homeward plods his weary way.” 

The ploughman would not have seemed half so tired if 
Gray had written, “homeward walks his weary way.” 

Sometimes the order of the words or the rhythm, that 
is, the arrangement of the accented and unaccented 
syllables, gives us pleasure. It is a little difficult to say 
why, but we know that this is true. The phrase “ the 
xx 


TO THE CHILDREN 

star-spangled banner ” makes us want to cheer for our 
country; but “ a banner spangled with stars ” sounds like 
an order to a manufacturer of bunting. The sentence, 
“The waves breaking on a rockbound and stern coast 
dashed high,” is prose, and rather disagreeable prose. 

“ The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast ” 

is poetry; and it is entirely because of its rhythm that 
it is so much more pleasing than the first arrangement 
of the same words. So in “ Thanatopsis ” (page 443), 
and in Addison’s “ The Spacious Firmament on High,” 
(page 389), even if one does not understand the full 
meaning of the poems, it is a pleasure to hear them 
read aloud. 

Sometimes we like a poem chiefly because of its 
thought, or because of the story that it tells, or because 
of something that it brings to mind. Longfellow’s “ The 
Builders” (page 416) has long been a favorite because 
the thought is good; namely, that all work is worth 
doing well because the smallest is of importance. We 
like “Paul Revere’s Ride” (page 85), because it tells a 
story; “The Children’s Hour” (page 3), because it 
paints so charming a picture of the loving poet-father in 
his study, laying down his pen in the twilight and wait- 
ing to be “ taken by surprise ” by the three little daugh- 
ters. One way of bringing a picture to mind is not to 
describe it fully, as Longfellow has done, but to tell just 
enough so that we make a picture for ourselves. Cole- 
ridge says in “ The Ancient Mariner ” (page 197) that the 
sails made “ a pleasant noise,” — 
xxi 


TO THE CHILDREN 


“A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune.” 

All that Coleridge really says of the brook is that it is 
hidden and that it makes a noise in the woods all night : 
but when you read this, your mind will go on and finish 
the picture. You will think of some brook that you 
know and some especially beautiful place in the woods. 
You will almost fancy that you can hear the murmur 
of the water. So it is that the poet has given you a better 
poem than he has put into words, because he has set 
your own thought to work, and that has added to the 
beauty of what he wrote. 

In the same way, a poet may suggest a thought as 
well as a picture without putting it into words. Matthew 
Arnold tells us in “The Forsaken Merman ” (page 179), 
that the earth maiden married a merman, but left him 
and their little children for the earth life again. The 
poem does not say that the merman is broken-hearted, 
but we know it because the one day since she went 
from the “ red gold throne in the heart of the sea ” to 
the “ little gray church on the shore ” seems so long to 
him. He can hardly believe it is only one day, and he 
appeals to the children now and again : — 

“ Children, dear, was it yesterday ? ” 

A poem may also suggest a mood so perfectly that you 
can hardly help yielding to it. The famous soldier-poet, 
Sir Philip Sidney, declared that “ the olde song of Percy 
and Duglas ” (page 251) moved him more than the sound 
of a trumpet. Even if you read the prelude to Lowell’s 
xxii 


TO THE CHILDREN 

“ The Vision of Sir Launfal ” (page 184) in the middle 
of the winter, you will almost fancy that it is summer 
and that if you should look out of the window, you 
would see the June day that he describes. Scott’s 
(“ Fatherland,” page 409) “ Breathes there a man with 
soul so dead,” makes our hearts thrill with love for our 
own country. A poem, then, may make one feel grave 
or merry or courageous to meet whatever may come ; 
it may give us pleasure or comfort or the cheer that will 
help us over hard places. A real poem is almost always 
a good friend in some way. 

There is a right way and a wrong way, however, to 
meet these poem-friends. The right way is first to read 
a poem and enjoy it without stopping to study or to think 
what its best points are, — just as you would meet a 
new person. But when a person has become your friend, 
you are much more likely to appreciate him if you stop 
once in a while and think what it is in him that is so 
lovable. It is the same way with a poem that pleases 
you. If you stop and think what it is that has given 
you pleasure, you will be likely not only to learn why, 
but to get much more pleasure from it. You will be 
sure to find that there is, either in sound or thought or 
picture-making or in its power to produce a mood, some 
excellence that could not have been found in a prose 
composition on the same subject ; and the reason is — 
because it is a poem. 



POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 




















































i 












V 





THE CHILDREN’S HOUR 


Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day’s occupations, 
That is known as the Children’s Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet. 

The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 

And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

3 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


They climb up into my turret 

O’er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 

They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 

Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for ^ou all! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


4 


BABY 


BABY 

Where did you come from, baby dear? 

Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue ? 

Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
A soft hand strok’d it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-corner’d smile of bliss ? 

Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 

God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 

Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? 
From the same box as the cherubs’ wings. 

5 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


How did they all just come to be you ? 

God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear? 

God thought about you, and so I am here. 

George Macdonald. 


BABYHOOD 

What is the little one thinking about ? 

Very wonderful things, no doubt! 

Unwritten history! 

Unfathomed mystery! 

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx! 

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years; 

And he’ll never know 
Where the summers go ; — 

He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so! 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 

Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day ? — 


BABYHOOD 


Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 

Tossing in pitiful agony, — 

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 

Specked with the barks of little souls, — 

Barks that were launched on the other side, 

And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! 

What does he think of his mother’s eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother’s hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother’s breast — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 

Seeking it ever with fresh delight — 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest? 

What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds — 

Words she has learned to murmur well ? 

Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep! 

I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse. 

Over his brow, and over his lips, 

Out to his little finger-tips! 

Softly sinking, down he goes! 

Down he goes! Down he goes! 

See! He is hushed in sweet repose! 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 


7 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


THE CHILD AND THE PIPER 

Piping down the valleys wild. 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child; 

And he, laughing, said to me, 

“Pipe a song about a lamb;” 

So I piped with merry cheer. 

“ Piper, pipe that song again ; ” 

So I piped, he wept to hear. 

“ Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer.” 

So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

“Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book that all may read.” 

So he vanished from my sight; 

And I pluck’d a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain’d the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 


8 


HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD 


HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 

By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 

Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 

Dark behind it rose the forest, 

Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them; 
Bright before it beat the water, 

Beat the clear and sunny water, 

Beat the shining Big-Sea- Water. 

There the wrinkled old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 

Rocked him in his linden cradle, 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 

Safely bound with reindeer sinews; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
‘‘Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!” 

Lulled him into slumber, singing, 
“Ewa-yea! my little owlet! 

Who is this that lights the wigwam ? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam ? 
Ewa-yea! my little owlet!” 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; 

Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, 
9 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of winter; 

Showed the broad, white road in heaven, 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha; 

Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water, 

Sounds of music, words of wonder; 

“ Minne-wawa ! ” said the pine-trees, 

“ Mudway-aushka ! ” said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening. 

With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 

And he sang the song of children, 

Sang the song Nokomis taught him: 

“ Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 

Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 

Light me with your little candle, 

Ere upon my bed I lay me, 

Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!” 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 

Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered, “ What is that, Nokomis ? ” 
And the good Nokomis answered: 

10 





J 


HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD 

“Once a warrior, very angry, 

Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight; 

Right against the moon he threw her; 

’T is her body that you see there.” 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 

In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 
Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” 
And the good Nokomis answered : 

“ ’T is the heaven of flowers you see there ; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest, 

All the lilies of the prairie, 

When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us.” 

When he heard the owls at midnight, 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 

“What is that?” he cried in terror; 

“ What is that ? ” he said, “ Nokomis ? ” 
And the good Nokomis answered : 

“That is but the owl and owlet, 

Talking in their native language, 

Talking, scolding at each other.” 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language. 
Learned their names and all their secrets. 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “Hiawatha’s chickens.” 

Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
11 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


How the beavers built their lodges, 

Where the squirrels hid their acorns. 

How the reindeer ran so swiftly. 

Why the rabbit was so timid, 

Talked with them whene’er he met them, 
Called them “Hiawatha’s brothers.” 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


THE DUMB SOLDIER 

When the grass was closely mown, 
Walking on the lawn alone. 

In the turf a hole I found, 

And hid a soldier underground. 

Spring and daisies came apace; 
Grasses hide my hiding-place; 
Grasses run like a green sea 
O’er the lawn up to my knee. 

Under grass alone he lies. 

Looking up with leaden eyes, 
Scarlet coat and pointed gun, 

To the stars and to the sun. 

When the grass is ripe like grain, 
When the scythe is stoned again. 
When the lawn is shaven clear. 
Then my hole shall reappear. 

12 


THE DUMB SOLDIER 


I shall find him, never fear, 

I shall find my grenadier; 

But for all that ’s gone and come, 

I shall find my soldier dumb. 

He has lived, a little thing, 

In the grassy woods of spring; 

Done, if he could tell me true, 

Just as I should like to do. 

He has seen the starry hours, 

And the springing of the flowers; 

And the fairy things that pass 
In the forests of the grass. 

In the silence he has heard 
Talking bee and ladybird, 

And the butterfly has flown 
O’er him as he lay alone. 

Not a word will he disclose, 

Not a word of all he knows. 

I must lay him on the shelf. 

And make up the tale myself. 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 


13 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


BEES 

Bees don’t care about the snow; 

I can tell you why that’s so: 

Once I caught a little bee 
Who was much too warm for me! 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 

“DID YOU SPEAK?” 

I saw the prettiest picture 

Through a garden fence to-day, 

Where the lilies look like angels 
Just let out to play, 

And the roses laugh to see them 
All the sweet June day: 

Through a hole behind the woodbine, 

Just large enough to see 
(By begging the lilies’ pardon) 

Without his seeing me, 

My neighbor’s boy, and Pharaoh, 

The finest dog you ’ll see. 

If you search from Maine to Georgia 
For a dog of kingly air, 

And the tolerant, high-bred patience 
The great St. Bernards wear, 


14 


DID YOU SPEAK? 

And the sense of lofty courtesy 
In breathing common air. 

I called the child’s name, — “Franko!” 

Hands up to shield my eyes 
From the jealous roses, — “ Franko ! ” 

A burst of bright surprise 
Transfixed the little fellow 
With wide, bewildered eyes. 

“Franko!” Ah, the mystery! 

Up and down, around, 

Looks Franko, searching gravely 
Sky and trees and ground, 

Wise wrinkles on the eyebrows, 

Studying the sound. 

“O Franko!” Puzzled Franko! 

The lilies will not tell; 

The roses shake with laughter, 

But keep the secret well; 

The woodbine nods importantly. 

“Who spoke?” cried Franko. “Tell!” 

The trees do not speak English; 

The calm great sky is dumb; 

The yard and street are silent; 

The old board-fence is mum; 

Pharaoh lifts his head, but, ah! 

Pharaoh too is dumb. 


15 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Grave wrinkles on his eyebrows, 

Hand upon his knee, 

Head bared for close reflection, 

Lighted curls blown free, — 

The child’s soul to the brute’s soul 
Goes out earnestly, 

From the child’s eyes to the brute’s eyes, 

And earnestly and slow 
The child’s young voice falls on my ear: 

“ Did you speak, Pharaoh ? ” 

The bright thought growing on him, — 

“Did you speak, Pharaoh?” 

I can but think if Franko 
Would teach us all his way 
Of listening and trusting, — 

The wise, wise Franko way! — 

The world would learn some summer 
To hear what dumb things say. 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 


S. P. C. T. T. 

I wish the careful little girls 
Could make the naughty little boys 
All join a big Society 
Preventing Cruelty to Toys l 

Abbie Farwell Brown. 


16 


AT THE PARTY 


WHAT THE WINDS BRING 

Which is the Wind that brings the cold ? 

The North-Wind, Freddy, and all the snow; 
And the sheep will scamper into the fold 
When the North begins to blow. 

Which is the Wind that brings the heat ? 

The South- Wind, Katy, and corn will grow, 
And peaches redden for you to eat, 

When the South begins to blow. 

Which is the Wind that brings the rain ? 

The East-Wind, Arty; and farmers know 
That cows come shivering up the lane 
When the East begins to blow. 

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers ? 

The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low 
The birdies sing in the summer hours 
When the West begins to blow. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


AT THE PARTY 

Half a dozen children 
At our house! 

Half a dozen children 
Quiet as a mouse, 
17 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Quiet as a moonbeam, 

You could hear a pin — 

Waiting for the party 
To begin. 

Such a flood of flounces! 

(Oh dear me!) 

Such a surge of sashes 
Like a silken sea. 

Little eyes demurely 

Cast upon the ground, 

Little airs and graces 
All around. 

High time for that party 
To begin! 

To sit so any longer 
Were a sort of sin; 

As if you were n’t acquainted 
With society. 

What a thing to tell of 
That would be! 

Up spoke a little lady 
Aged five: 

“I’ve tumbled up my overdress, 
Sure as I ’m alive ! 

My dress came from Paris; 

We sent to Worth for it; 

Mother says she calls it 
Such a fit!” 

18 


AT THE PARTY 


Quick there piped another 
Little voice — 

“ I did n’t send for dresses 

Though I had my choice; 

I have got a doll that 

Came from Paris, too; 

It can walk and talk as 
Well as you!” 

Still, till now, there sat one 
Little girl; 

Simple as a snow-drop. 

Without flounce or curl. 

Modest as a primrose, 

Soft, plain hair brushed back. 

But the color of her dress was 
Black — all black. 

Swift she glanced around with 
Sweet surprise; 

Bright and grave the look that 
Widened in her eyes. 

To entertain the party 

She must do her share, 

As if God had sent her 
Stood she there; 

Stood a minute, thinking, 

With crossed hands, 

How she best might meet the 
Company’s demands. 

19 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Grave and sweet the purpose 

To the child’s voice given, — 

“7 have a little brother 
Gone to heaven!” 

On the little party 
Dropped a spell; 

All the little flounces 

Rustled where they fell; 

But the modest maiden 

In her mourning gown, 

Unconscious as a flower, 

Looked down. 

Quick my heart besought her, 

Silently, 

“Happy little maiden, 

Give, oh, give to me 
The highness of your courage, 

The sweetness of your grace, 

To speak a large word in a 
Little place.” 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 


A FAMILY REUNION 

The Family once gave a Fete, 

And Charlie Boy was there; 

But Charlie sat him down and sulked, 
“I do not think it’s fair! 

20 


A FAMILY REUNION 


“ The other little girls and boys 

Have lots and lots of cousins. 

And brothers and twin-sisters, too, 

By threes and fours and dozens. 

“ But there are n’t any relatives 

To come with me and play, 

Except a single little girl, 

My cousin Rosa May.” 

Now Charlie should have looked around 
And thought the matter out, 

When, surely, soon he would have found 
He had no cause to pout. 

For all in Charlie’s family, 

And chiefly of his name, 

Besides our Charlie Boy himself, 

Just hear what children came: 

Now there was little Rosa first; 

And grandpa’s grandchild dear; 

His great-great-aunt’s grand-nephew’s girl 
Was also sitting near. 

The cousin of his father’s son; 

The niece of Charlie’s mother; 

His auntie’s child; and the only one 
Of his mother’s husband’s brother. 

His second cousin once removed 
Had one third cousin, too, 

21 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


The cousin of our Charlie Boy, — 

Is that quite plain to you ? 

His grandma’s husband’s son-in-law 
Had one dear daughter there, 

And the child of mamma’s brother-in-law 
Was quite as sweet and fair. 

The grand-niece of his father’s ailnt; 

The grandchild of her brother; 

His uncle’s grandma’s grandson’s niece, 

Dear me ! Was there another ? 

Yes, Charlie’s father’s brother’s wife 
Had brought her little daughter. 

If Charlie could not play with these , 

Why, dearie me, he oughter! 

But Charlie only sat and sulked 
As naughty boys will do, 

And whined to little Rosa May, 

“ What game is there for two ? ” 

Abbw Farwell Brown . 


A CHILD BALLAD 

Jesus, He loves one and all, 

Jesus, He loves children small, 

Their souls are waiting round His feet, 
On high before His mercy-seat. 


BOSTON BOYS 


While He wandered here below, 

Children small to Him did go, 

At His feet they knelt and prayed, 

On their heads His hands He laid. 

Came a Spirit on them then, 

Better than of mighty men, 

A Spirit, faithful, pure, and mild, 

A Spirit fit for king or child. 

Oh! that Spirit give to me, 

Jesu, Lord, where’er I be. 

Charles Kingsley. 


BOSTON BOYS 

GRANDFATHER’S STORY 

What! you want to hear a story all about the old-time 

glory* 

When your grandsires fought for freedom against 
the British crown; 

When King George’s redcoats mustered all their forces, 
to be flustered 

By our Yankee raw recruits, from each village and 
each town; 

And the very boys protested, when they thought their 
rights molested. 

My father used to tell us how the British general 
stared 


23 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


With a curious, dazed expression when the youngsters 
in procession 

Filed before him in a column, not a whit put out or 
scared. 

Then the leader told his story, — told the haughty, 
handsome Tory 

How his troops there, on the mall there (what you 
call “the Common,” dears). 

All the winter through had vexed them, meddled with 
them, and perplexed them, 

Flinging back to their remonstrance only laughter, 
threats, and sneers. 

“ What ! ” the General cried in wonder, — and his tones 
were tones of thunder, — 

“ Are these the rebel lessons that your fathers 
taught you, pray ? 

Did they send such lads as you here, to make such bold 
ado here, 

And flout King George’s officers upon the King’s 
highway ? ” 

Up the little leader started, while heat lightning flashed 
and darted 

From his blue eyes as he answered, stout of voice, 
with all his might, 

“ No one taught us, let me say, sir, — no one sent us 
here to-day, sir; 

But we’re Yankees, Yankees, Yankees, and we know 
that we are right! 


24 


BOSTON BOYS 


“ And your soldiers at the first, sir, on the mall there, 
did their worst, sir; 

Pulled our snow hills down we’d built there, broke 
the ice upon our pond. 

4 Help it, help it if you can, then ! ’ back they answered 
every man then, 

When we asked them, sir, to quit it; and we said, 
'This goes beyond 

“‘Soldiers’ rights or soldiers’ orders, for we’ve kept 
within our borders 

To the south’ard of the mall there, where we’ve 
always had our play !’” — 

“Where you always shall hereafter, undisturbed by 
threats or laughter 

From my officers or soldiers. Go, my brave boys; 
from this day 

“Troops of mine shall never harm you, never trouble 
or alarm you,” 

Suddenly the British general, moved with admira- 
tion, cried. 

In a minute caps were swinging, five and twenty voices 
ringing 

In a shout and cheer that summoned every neigh- 
bor far and wide. 

And these neighbors told the story how the haughty, 
handsome Tory, 

Bowing, smiling, hat in hand there, faced the little 
rebel band; 


25 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


How he said, just then and after, half in earnest, half in 
laughter : 

“ So it seems the very children strike for freedom in 
this land!” 

So I tell you now the story all about that old-time glory, 

As my father’s father told it long and long ago to 
me; 

How they met and had it out there, what he called their 
bloodless bout there; 

How he felt. — What ! was he there, then ? — Why, 
the leader , that was he! 

Nora Perry. 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

It was the Schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 

And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 
The smoke now west, now south. 

26 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 


Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

‘ I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

“ Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!” 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast, 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength; 

She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed. 
Then leaped her cable’s length. 

“ Come hither ! come hither! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so; 

For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat 
Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring! 

Oh say, what may it be ? ” 

27 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


“ ’T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!” — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

“ O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh say, what may it be ? ” 

“Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea!” 

“O father! I see a gleaming light, 

Oh say, what may it be?” 

But the father answered never a word, — 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
That saved she might be; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

28 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 


The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
Looked soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank. 

Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman’s Woe! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


29 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 

A STORY OF HOLLAND 

The good dame looked from her cottage 
At the close of the pleasant day, 

And cheerily called to her little son 
Outside the door at play, 

“ Come, Peter, come ! I want you to go, 

While there is light to see, 

To the hut of the blind old man who lives 
Across the dike, for me, 

And take these cakes I made for him — 
They are hot and smoking yet; 

You have time enough to go and come 
Before the sun is set.” 

Then the good-wife turned to her labor, 
Humming a simple song, 

And thought of her husband, working hard 
At the sluices all day long; 

And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse black bread; 

That he might find a fire at night, 

And find the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother 
With whom all day he had played, 

And the sister who had watched their sports 
In the willow’s tender shade; 

30 


THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 


And told them they’d see him back before 
They saw a star in sight, 

Though he would n’t be afraid to go 
In the very darkest night! 

For he was a brave, bright fellow, 

With eye and conscience clear; 

He could do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 

Why, he would n’t have robbed a bird’s nest, 
Nor brought a stork to harm, 

Though never a law in Holland 
Had stood to stay his arm! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 

And eyes as bright as the day 

With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, 

He trudged along the way; 

And soon his joyous prattle 
Made glad a lonesome place. 

Alas! if only the blind old man 
Could have seen that happy face! 

Yet he somehow caught the brightness 
Which his voice and presence lent; 

And he felt the sunshine come and go 
As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 

And the winds began to rise, 

The mother looked from her door again, 
Shading her anxious eyes; 

And saw the shadows deepen 
31 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


And birds to their homes come back. 

But never a sign of Peter 
Along the level track. 

But she said, “ He will come at morning. 

So I need not fret or grieve — 

Though it is n’t like my boy at all 
To stay without my leave.” 

But where was the child delaying? 

On the homeward way was he, 

And across the dike while the sun was up 
An hour above the sea. 

He was stopping now to gather flowers, 

Now listening to the sound, 

As the angry waters dashed themselves 
Against their narrow bound. 

“ Ah! well for us,” said Peter, 

“ That the gates are good and strong. 

And my father tends them carefully, 

Or they would not hold you long! 

You ’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; 

“I know why you fret and chafe; 

You would like to spoil our lands and homes; 
But our sluices keep you safe!” 

But hark! Through the noise of waters 
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; 

And the child’s face pales with terror. 

And his blossoms drop to the ground. 

He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand, 

32 


THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 

He sees a stream not yet so large 
As his slender, childish hand. 

9 T is a leak in the dike ! He is but a boy, 
Unused to fearful scenes; 

But, young as he is, he has learned to know, 
The dreadful thing that means. 

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart 
Grows faint that cry to hear, 

And the bravest man in all the land 
Turns white with mortal fear. 

For he knows the smallest leak may grow 
To a flood in a single night; 

And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 
When loosed in its angry might. 

And the boy! He has seen the danger, 

And, shouting a wild alarm, 

He forces back the weight of the sea 
With the strength of his single arm! 

He listens for the joyful round 
Of a footstep passing nigh; 

And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 
The answer to his cry. 

And he hears the rough winds blowing, 

And the waters rise and fall, 

But never an answer comes to him, 

Save the echo of his call. 

He sees no hope, no succor, 

His feeble voice is lost; 

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, 
Though he perish at his post! 

33 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


So, faintly calling and crying 
Till the sun is under the sea; 

Crying and moaning till the stars 
Come out for company; 

He thinks of his brother and sister, 

Asleep in their safe warm bed; 

He thinks of his father and mother, 

Of himself as dying — and dead ; 

And of how, when the night is over, 

They must come and find him at last : 

But he never thinks he can leave the place 
Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 
Is up and astir with the light. 

For the thought of her little Peter 
Has been with her all night. 

And now she watches the pathway, 

As yester eve she had done; 

But what does she see so strange and black 
Against the rising sun ? 

Her neighbors are bearing between them 
Something straight to her door; 

Her child is coming home, but not 
As he ever came before ! 

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!” 

And the startled father hears. 

And comes and looks the way she looks. 
And fears the thing she fears : 

Till a glad shout from the bearers 
34 


THE LEAK IN THE DIKE 

Thrills the stricken man and wife : 

“ Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 
And God has saved his life!” 

So, there in the morning sunshine 
They knelt about the boy; 

And every head was bared and bent 
In tearful, reverent joy. 

’T is many a year since then ; but still, 

When the sea roars like a flood, 

Their boys are taught what a boy can do 
Who is brave and true and good. 

For every man in that country 
Takes his son by the hand, 

And tells him of little Peter, 

Whose courage saved the land. 

They have many a valiant hero, 

Remembered through the years: 

But never one whose name so oft 
Is named with loving tears. 

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 

And told to the child on the knee, 

So long as the dikes of Holland 
Divide the land from the sea! 

Phoebe Cary. 


35 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


THE BALLAD OF BABY BELL 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours ? 

The gates of heaven were left ajar; 

With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 

She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 

O’er which the white-winged angels go, 
Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 

She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels! 

They fell like dew upon the flowers, 

Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 

And thus came dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours. 

She came and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves; 
Like sunlight in and out the leaves, 

The robins went the livelong day; 

The lily swung its noiseless bell. 

And o’er the porch the trembling vine 
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 

36 


THE BALLAD OF BABY BELL 


Oh, earth was full of singing-birds, 

And opening spring-tide flowers, 

When the dainty Baby Bell 

Came to this world of ours! 

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 

How fair she grew from day to day! 

What woman-nature filled her eyes, 

What poetry within them lay! 

Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright, 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 

And so we loved her more and more; 

Ah, never in our hearts before 
Was love so lovely born: 

We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn. 

And for the love of those dear eyes. 

For love of her whom God led forth 
(The mother’s being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise), — 

For love of Him who smote our lives, 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 

We said. Dear Christ ! — our hearts bent down 
Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 

Were rich in autumn’s mellow prime. 

37 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


The clustered apples burnt like flame, 

The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 

The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 
In little Baby Bell. 

Her lissome form more perfect grew, 

And in her features we could trace. 

In softened curves, her mother’s face! 
Her angel-nature ripened too. 

We thought her lovely when she came, 

But she was holy, saintly now : — 

Around her pale angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame! 

God’s hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech; 
And oft she said a few strange words 

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 
She never was a child to us, 

We never held her being’s key, 

We could not teach her holy things; 

She was Christ’s self in purity. 

It came upon us by degrees, 

We saw its shadow ere it fell: 

The knowledge that our God had sent 
His messenger for Baby Bell. 

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, 

And all our hopes were changed to fears, 
And all our thoughts ran into tears 
38 


THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER 


Like sunshine into rain. 

We cried aloud in our belief, 

“ Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! 

Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 

And perfect grow through grief.” 

Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; 

Her heart was folded deep in ours. 

Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands: 

And what did dainty Baby Bell ? 

She only crossed her little hands, 

She only looked more meek and fair! 

We parted back her silken hair. 

We wove the roses round her brow, — 

White buds, the summer’s drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers! 

And then went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER 

We were crowded in the cabin, 

Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters, 

And a storm was on the deep. 

’T is a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 

39 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, “ Cut away the mast ! ” 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 

For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 

And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy with his prayers, 

“We are lost!” the captain shouted, 

As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 

As she took his icy hand, 

“ Is n’t God upon the ocean, 

Just the same as on the land ? ” 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 

And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields. 


LITTLE BOY BLUE 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
And his musket moulds in his hands. 
40 


THE LAND OF STORY BOOKS 


Time was when the little toy dog was new 
And the soldier was passing fair, 

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 

“Now don’t you go till I come,” he said, 

“ And don’t you make any noise ! ” 

So toddling off to his trundle-bed 
He dreamt of the pretty toys. 

And as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue, — 

Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true. 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand. 

Each in the same old place. 

Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 

And they wonder, as waiting these long years through. 
In the dust of that little chair, 

What has become of our Little Boy Blue 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 

Eugene Field. 


THE LAND OF STORY BOOKS 


At evening, when the lamp is lit, 
Around the fire my parents sit. 

They sit at home, and talk and sing, 
And do not play at anything. 

41 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Now, with my little gun, I crawl 
All in the dark along the wall, 

And follow round the forest track 
Away behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, when none can spy, 

All in my hunter’s camp I lie, 

And play at books that I have read 
Till it is time to go to bed. 

These are the hills, these are the woods, 
These are my starry solitudes, 

And there the river, by whose brink 
The roaring lions come to drink. 

I see the others far away, 

As if in firelit camp they lay, 

And I, like to an Indian scout, 

Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, 

Home I return across the sea, 

And go to bed with backward looks 
At my dear Land of Story Books. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


42 


GHOST FAIRIES 


BED IN SUMMER 

In winter I get up at night 
And dress by yellow candle-light. 

In summer, quite the other way, 

I have to go to bed by day. 

I have to go to bed and see 
The birds still hopping on the tree, 

Or hear the grown-up people’s feet 
Still going past me in the street. 

And does it not seem hard to you, 

When all the sky is clear and blue, 

And I should like so much to play, 

To have to go to bed by day ? 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


GHOST FAIRIES 

When the open fire is lit, 

In the evening after tea, 

Then I like to come and sit 
Where the fire can talk to me. 

Fairy stories it can tell, 

Tales of a forgotten race, — 
Of the fairy ghosts that dwell 
In the ancient chimney place. 
43 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


They are quite the strangest folk 
Anybody ever knew, 

Shapes of shadow and of smoke 
Living in the chimney flue. 

“ Once,” the fire said, “ long ago, 

With the wind they used to rove, 

Gipsy fairies, to and fro, 

Camping in the field and grove. 

“ Hither with the trees they came 
Hidden in the logs; and here, 

Hovering above the flame, 

Often some of them appear.” 

So I watch, and, sure enough, 

I can see the fairies! Then, 

Suddenly there comes a puff — 

Whish ! — and they are gone again ! 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 


DAISIES 

At evening when I go to bed 
I see the stars shine overhead; 
They are the little daisies white 
That dot the meadow of the Night. 

And often while I ’m dreaming so, 
Across the sky the Moon will go; 

44 












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SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP 

It is a lady, sweet and fair, 

Who comes to gather daisies there. 

For when at morning I arise, 

There’s not a star left in the skies; 

She’s picked them all and dropped them down 
Into the meadows of the town. 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 


SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Thy father watches the sheep; 

Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree 
And down comes a little dream on thee. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep; 

The little stars are the lambs, I guess; 

And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Our Saviour loves His sheep: 

He is the Lamb of God on high. 

Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

From the German. 


45 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


A CHILD’S THOUGHT OF GOD 

They say that God lives very high, 

But if you look above the pines 

You cannot see our God, and why? 

And if you dig down in the mines 
You never see Him in the gold; 

Though, from Him, all that’s glory shines. 

God is so good, He wears a fold 
Of heaven and earth across His face — 

Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 

But still I feel that His embrace 
Slides down by thrills, through all things made, 

Through sight and sound of every place. 

As if my tender mother laid 

On my shut lids, her kisses’ pressure. 

Half-waking me at night, and said, 

“ Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser ? ” 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

46 


THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 


Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow; 

The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 

As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?” 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 

And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o’er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

47 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar that renewed our woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 

“The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall!” 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 

THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 

I was once a barefoot boy! 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy 
48 



9ES 


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Ik 


BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN, 
BAREFOOT BOY, WITH CHEEK OF TAN! 






THE BAREFOOT BOY 


In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild flower’s time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Face to face with her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, — 

Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

49 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Oh for boyhood’s time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master, waited for. 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 

Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall. 

Talked with me from fall to fall; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine, on bending orchard trees, 

Apples of Hesperides! 

Still as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too ; 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread; 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone, gray and rude! 

O’er me, like a regal tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 

50 


THE BAREFOOT BOY 


Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 

While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 

Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod. 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 

Up and down in ceaseless moil: 

Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 

Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


51 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


STORY OF THE “BAREFOOT BOY’ 

(Written for J. G. Whittier’s seventieth birthday) 

“ I was once a barefoot boy.” — J. G. Whittier. 

On Haverhill’s pleasant hills there played, 
Some sixty years ago, 

In turned-up trousers, tattered hat, 

Patches and freckles, and all that, 

The Barefoot Boy we know. 

He roamed his berry-fields content; 

But while, from bush and brier 
The nimble feet got many a scratch, 

His wit, beneath its homely thatch, 

Aspired to something higher. 

Over his dog-eared spelling-book, 

Or school-boy composition, 

Puzzling his head with some hard sum, 

Going for nuts, or gathering gum, 

He cherished his ambition. 

He found the turtles’ eggs, and watched 
To see the warm sun hatch ’em; 

Hunted, with sling, or bow and arrow, 

Or salt, to trap the unwary sparrow; 

Caught fish, or tried to catch ’em. 

But more and more, to rise, to soar — 

This hope his bosom fired. 

52 


STORY OF THE BAREFOOT BOY 


He shot his shaft, he sailed his kite, 

Let out the string and watched its flight, 

And smiled, while he aspired. 

“ Now I ’ve a plan — I know we can! ” 

He said to Mat — another 
Small shaver of the barefoot sort: 

His name was Matthew; Mat, for short; 

Our barefoot’s younger brother. 

“What! fly?” says Mat. “Well, not just that.” 
John thought: “No, we can’t fly; 

But we can go right up,” says he, 

“ Oh, higher than the highest tree ! 

Away up in the sky!” 

“Oh, do!” says Mat; “I’ll hold thy hat, 

And watch while thee is gone.” 

For these were Quaker lads, and each 
Lisped in his pretty Quaker speech. 

“No, that won’t do,” says John. 

“For thee must help; then we can float, 

As light as any feather. 

We both can lift; now don’t thee see? 

If thee ’ll lift me while I lift thee, 

We shall go up together!” 

An autumn evening; early dusk ; 

A few stars faintly twinkled; 

The crickets chirped; the chores were done; 

53 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


’T was just the time to have some fun, 
Before the tea- bell tinkled. 

They spat upon their hands, and clinched, 
Firm under-hold and upper. 

“ Don’t lift too hard, or lift too far,” 

Says Mat, “ or we may hit a star, 

And not get back to supper!” 

“Oh, no!” says John; “we’ll only lift 
A few rods up, that ’s all, 

To see the river and the town. 

Now don’t let go till we come down, 

Or we shall catch a fall! 

“Hold fast to me! now; one, two, three! 
And up we go!” They jerk, 

They pull and strain, but all in vain! 

A bright idea, and yet, ’t was plain 
It somehow would n’t work. 

John gave it up; ah, many a John 
Has tried and failed, as he did! 

’T was a shrewd notion, none the less, 

And still, in spite of ill success, 

It somehow has succeeded. 

Kind nature smiled on that wise child, 

Nor could her love deny him 
The large fulfillment of his plan; 

Since he who lifts his brother man 
In turn is lifted by him. 

54 


THE DISCOVERER 


He reached the starry heights of peace 
Before his head was hoary; 

And now, at threescore years and ten, 

The blessings of his fellow-men 
Waft him a crown of glory. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 


THE DISCOVERER 

I have a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all their peers together! 

He is a brave discoverer, 

And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
Ay, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark; 

Past hoary Mimir’s well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly, in his fair young hour. 
Came one who bore a flower, 

And laid it in his dimpled hand 
With this command: 

“ Henceforth thou art a rover ! 

Thou must make a voyage far, 

55 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Sail beneath the evening star, 

And a wondrous land discover.” 

— With his sweet smile innocent 
Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 
From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 

How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward bound ? 

Would that he might return! 

Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways part. 

Hush! does not the baby this way bring, 

To lay beside this severed curl, 

Some starry offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl ? 

Ah, no! not so! 

We may follow on his track, 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know. 

He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years. 
More than in the groves is taught, 

Or from furthest Indies brought; 

He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, — 
56 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 


What shapes the angels wear. 

What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach, — 

And his eyes behold 

Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

i 

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city; 

The river Weser, deep and wide. 

Washes its wall on the southern side; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied; 

But when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 

ii 

Rats! 

They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 

And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 

Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, 

And even spoiled the women’s chats 
By drowning their speaking 
57 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

hi 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking: 

“ ’T is clear,” cried they, “ our Mayor ’s a noddy 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine 
What’s best to rid us of our vermin! 

You hope, because you ’re old and obese, 

To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we’re lacking, 

Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!” 

At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

IV 

An hour they sat in council; 

At length the Mayor broke silence: 

“ For a guilder I ’d my ermine gown sell, 

I wish I were a mile hence! 

It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain — * 

I’m sure my poor head aches again, 

I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain. 

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!” 

Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber-door but a gentle tap ? 

“ Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “ what ’s that ? ” 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

(With the Corporation as he sat, 

Looking little though wondrous fat; 

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster, 

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) 

“ Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!” 

v 

“Come in!” the Mayor cried, looking bigger; 

And in did come the strangest figure ! 

His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red, 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 

But lips where smiles went out and in; 

There was no guessing his kith and kin : 

And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 

Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire, 

Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone, 

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!” 

VI 

He advanced to the council-table : 

And, “Please your honors,” said he, “I’m able, 

By means of a secret charm, to draw 
59 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


All creatures living beneath the sun, 

That creep or swim or fly or run, 

After me so as you never saw! 

And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm, 

The mole and toad and newt and viper; 

And people call me the Pied Piper.” 

(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 

To match with his coat of the self-same check; 
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe; 

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 

“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham, 

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: 

And as for what your brain bewilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats 

Will you give me a thousand guilders ? ” 

“ One ? fifty thousand ! ” — was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

VII 

Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile. 

As if he knew what magic slept 
In his quiet pipe the while; 

60 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 


Then, like a musical adept, 

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; 

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 

You heard as if an army muttered; 

And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 

Families by tens and dozens, 

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 

Followed the Piper for their lives. 

From street to street he piped advancing, 

And step for step they followed dancing, 

Until they came to the river Weser, 

Wherein all plunged and perished! 

— Save one who, stout as Julius Csesar, 

Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he, the manuscript he cherished) 

To Rat-land home his commentary: 

Which was, “ At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 

And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 

Into a cider-press’s gripe: 

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 

61 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops of butter casks: 

And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 

Is breathed) called out, ‘ Oh rats, rejoice ! 

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! 

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’ 

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 

Already staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious scarce an inch before me, 

Just as methought it said, ‘Come, bore me!’ 

— I found the Weser rolling o’er me.” 

VIII 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 

“ Go,” cried the Mayor, “ and get long poles, 

Poke out the nests and block up the holes! 

Consult with carpenters and builders. 

And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats ! ” — when suddenly, up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 

With a “ First, if you please, my thousand guilders ! ” 

IX 

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 

And half the money would replenish 
62 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 


Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 

“ Besides,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, 
“Our business was done at the river’s brink; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 

And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think, 

So, friend, we ’re not the folks to shrink 

From the duty of giving you something for drink, 

And a matter of money to put in your poke; 

But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Besides, our losses have made us thrifty. 

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!” 

x 

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried, 

“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 

I ’ve promised to visit by dinner time 

Bagdat, and accept the prime 

Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in, 

For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, 

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: 

With him I proved no bargain-driver, 

With you, don’t think I ’ll bate a stiver ! 

And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe after another fashion.” 

XI 

“ How ? ” cried the Mayor, “ d’ ye think I brook 
Being worse treated than a Cook ? 

63 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


Insulted by a lazy ribald 

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 

You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 

Blow your pipe there till you burst !” 

XII 

Once more he stept into the street, 

And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; 

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air) 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scatter- 
ing, 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

XIII 

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 

Unable to move a step, or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by, 

— Could only follow with the eye 
64 



THERE WAS A RUSTLING THAT SEEMED LIKE A BUSTLING 
OF MERRY CROWDS .JUSTLING AT BITCHING AND HUSTLING; 
SMALL FEET WERE PATTERING, WOODEN SHOES CLATTERING, 
LITTLE HANDS CLAPPING AND LITTLE TONGUES CHATTERING, 
AND, LIKE FOWLS IN A FARM-YARD WHEN BARLEY IS SCATTERING, 
OUT CAME THE CHILDREN RUNNING. 

ALL THE LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS, 

WITH ROSY CHEEKS AND FLAXEN CURLS, 

AND SPARKLING EYES AND TEETH LIKE PEARLS, 

TRIPPING AND SKIPPING, RAN MERRILY AFTER 
THE WONDERFUL MUSIC WITH SHOUTING AND LAUGHTER. 


"h 

vb. 


iQil 


a 

k 




3S? 






THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 


That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back. 

But how the Mayor was on the rack, 

And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, 

As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daughters! 
However, he turned from South to West, 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 

And after him the children pressed; 

Great was the joy in every breast. 

“He never can cross that mighty top! 

He’s forced to let the piping drop. 

And we shall see our children stop!” 

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; 

And the Piper advanced and the children followed, 
And when all were in to the very last, 

The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 

Did I say, all ? No ! One was lame, 

And could not dance the whole of the way; 

And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, — 

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left! 

I can’t forget that I ’m bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 

Which the Piper also promised me. 

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 

Joining the town and just at hand, 

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 

65 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 


And everything was strange and new; 

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 

And honey-bees had lost their stings, 

And horses were born with eagles’ wings: 

And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 

The music stopped and I stood still, 

And found myself outside the hill, 

Left alone against my will, 

To go now limping as before, 

And never hear of that country more!” 

XIV 

Alas, alas! for Hamelin! 

There came into many a burgher’s pate 
A text which says that heaven’s gate 
Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in ! 

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, 
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was men’s lot to find him, 

Silver and gold to his heart’s content, 

If he’d only return the way he went, 

And bring the children behind him. 

But when they saw ’t was a lost endeavor, 

And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 

They made a decree that lawyers never 
Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year, 

These words did not as well appear, 

66 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 


“And so long after what happened here 
On the Twenty-second of July, 

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:” 

And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children’s last retreat, 

They called it the Pied Piper’s Street — 

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn; 

But opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column, 

And on the great church-window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away, 

And there it stands to this very day. 

And I must not omit to say 

That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 

Of alien people who ascribe 

The outlandish ways and dress 

On which their neighbors lay such stress. 

To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterraneous prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 

But how or why, they don’t understand. 

xv 

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 
Of scores out with all men — especially pipers 
67 


POEMS ABOUT CHILDREN 

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from 
mice, 

If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our pro- 
mise ! 

Robert Browning. 

THE LAMPLIGHTER 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; 

It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going 

by; 

For every night at teatime and before you take your 
seat, 

With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the 
street. 

Now Tom would be a- driver and Maria go to sea. 

And my papa ’s a banker and as rich as he can be ; 

But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I ’m to 
do, 

O Leerie, I ’ll go round at night and light the lamps with 
you! 

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, 

And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many 
more; 

And oh, before you hurry by with ladder and with 
light, 

O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night ! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


68 


DOMINE, CUI SUNT PLEIADES CURAE 


DOMINE, CUI SUNT PLEIADES 
CURAE 

Father, who keepest 
The stars in Thy care, 

Me, too, Thy little one. 

Childish in prayer, 

Keep, as Thou keepest 
The soft night through, 

Thy long, white lilies 
Asleep in Thy dew. 

Charles G. D. Roberts. 



STORY-TELLING POEMS 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING- 
MACHINE 


If ever there lived a Yankee lad. 

Wise or otherwise, good or bad, 

Who, seeing the birds fly, did n’t jump 
With flapping arms from stake or stump, 

Or, spreading the tail 
Of his coat for a sail, 

Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 

And wonder why 
He could n’t fly, 

And flap and flutter and wish and try, — 

If ever you knew a country dunce 
Who did n’t try that as often as once. 

All I can say is, that’s a sign 
He never would do for a hero of mine. 

An aspiring genius was D. Green: 

The son of a farmer, — age fourteen ; 

His body was long and lank and lean, — 

Just right for flying, as will be seen; 

He had two eyes, each bright as a bean, 

And a freckled nose that grew between, 

A little awry, — for I must mention 
That he had riveted his attention 
Upon his wonderful invention, 

Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, 
73 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Working his face as he worked the wings, 

And with every turn of gimlet and screw 
Turning and screwing his mouth round too. 
Till his nose seemed bent 
To catch the scent, 

Around some Gorner, of new-baked pies, 

And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes 
Grew puckered into a queer grimace, 

That made him look very droll in the face, 

And also very wise. 

And wise he must have been, to do more 
Than ever a genius did before, 

Excepting Daedalus of yore 
And his son Icarus, who wore 
Upon their backs 
Those wings of wax 
He had read of in the old almanacs. 

Darius was clearly of the opinion 
That the air is also man’s dominion, 

And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, 

We soon or late 
Shall navigate 

The azure as now we sail the sea. 

The thing looks simple enough to me; 

And if you doubt it, 

Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 

“Birds can fly, 

An’ why can’t I ? 

Must we give in,” 

Says he with a grin, 

74 


DARIUS GREEN’S FLYING-MACHINE 


“’T the bluebird an’ phcebe 
Are smarter ’n we be ? 

Jest fold our hands an’ see the s waller 
An’ blackbird an’ catbird beat us holler? 

Doos the leetle chatterin’, sassy wren, 

No bigger ’n my thumb, know more than men ? 

Jest show me that! 

Er prove ’t the bat 

Hez got more brains than ’s in my hat, 

An’ I’ll back down, an’ not till then!” 

He argued further: “Ner I can’t see 
What ’s th’ use o’ wings to a bumble-bee, 

Fer to git a livin’ with, more’n to me; — 

Ain’t my business 
Important ’s his’n is ? 

“That Icarus 
Was a silly cuss, — 

Him an’ his daddy Daedalus. 

They might ’a’ knowed wings made o’ wax 
Would n’t stan’ sun-heat an’ hard whacks. 

I ’ll make mine o’ luther, 

Er suthin’ er other.” 

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned 
“ But I ain’t goin’ to show my hand 
To nummies that never can understand 
The fust idee that’s big an’ grand. 

They’d ’a’ laft an’ made fun 
O’ Creation itself afore ’t was done ! ” 

So he kept his secret from all the rest, 

75 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Safely buttoned within his vest; 

And in the loft above the shed 

Himself he locks, with thimble and thread 

And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, 

And all such things as geniuses use; — 

Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! 

A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; 

An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as 
Some wire, and several old umbrellas; 

A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; 

A piece of harness; and straps and strings; 

And a big strong box, 

In which he locks 
These and a hundred other things. 

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke 
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk 
Around the corner to see him work, — 

Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 

Drawing the waxed end through with a jerk, 

And boring the holes with a comical quirk 
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. 

But vainly they mounted each other’s backs, 

And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks ; 
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks 
He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; 

And a bucket of water, which one would think 
He had brought up into the loft to drink 
When he chanced to be dry, 

Stood always nigh, 

For Darius was sly! 

76 


DARIUS GREEN’S FLYING-MACHINE 


And whenever at work he happened to spy 
At chink or crevice a blinking eye, 

He let a dipper of water fly. 

“Take that! an’ ef ever ye git a peep, 

Guess ye’ll ketch a weasel asleep!” 

And he sings as he locks 
His big strong box : — 

“The weasel’s head is small an’ trim, 

An’ he is leetle an’ long an’ slim, 

An’ quick of motion an’ nimble of limb, 

An’ ef yeou ’ll be 
Advised by me, 

Keep wide awake when ye’re ketchin’ him!” 

So day after day 

He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, 
Till at last ’t was done, — 

The greatest invention under the sun! 

“ An’ now,” says Darius, “ hooray fer some fun ! ” 

’T was the Fourth of July, 

And the weather was dry, 

And not a cloud was on all the sky. 

Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, 
Half mist, half air, 

Like foam on the ocean went floating by: 

Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen 
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. 

Thought cunning Darius: “Now I shan’t go 
Along ’ith the fellers to see the show. 

77 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


I’ll say I’ve got sich a terrible cough! 

An’ then, when the folks ’ave all gone off, 

I ’ll hev full swing 
Fer to try the thing, 

An’ practyse a leetle on the wing.” 

“ Ain’t goin’ to see the celebration ? ” 

Says Brother Nate. “No; botheration! 

I ’ve got sich a cold — a toothache — I — 

My gracious ! — feel ’s though I should fly ! ” 

Said Jotham, “’Sho! 

Guess ye better go.” 

But Darius said, “No! 

Should n’t wonder ’f yeou might see me, though, 

’Long ’bout noon, ef I git red 

O’ this jumpin’, thumpin’ pain ’n my head.” 

For all the while to himself he said : — 

“I tell ye what! 

I ’ll fly a few times around the lot, 

To see how ’t seems, then soon ’s I ’ve got 
The hang o’ the thing, ez likely ’s not, 

I’ll astonish the nation, 

An’ all creation, 

By flying over the celebration! 

Over their heads I’ll sail like an eagle; 

I’ll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; 

I ’ll dance on the chimbleys ; I ’ll stan’ on the steeple 
I’ll flop up to the winders an’ scare the people! 
I’ll light on the libbe’ty-pole, an’ crow; 

78 


DARIUS GREEN’S FLYING-MACHINE 


An’ I ’ll say to the gawpin’ fools below, 

‘ What world ’s this ’ere 
That I’ve come near?’ 

Fer I ’ll make ’em b’lieve I’ma chap f ’m the moon 
An’ I’ll try a race ’ith their ol’ bulloon.” 

He crept from his bed; 

And, seeing the others were gone, he said, 

“I’m gittin’ over the cold ’n my head.” 

And away he sped, 

To open the wonderful box in the shed. 

His brothers had walked but a little way 
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, 

“ What on airth is he up to, hey ? ” 

“ Don’o’, — the’ ’s suthin’ er other to pay, 

Er he would n’t ’a’ stayed to hum to-day.” 

Says Burke, “ His toothache ’s all ’n his eye ! 

He never ’d miss a Fo’th-o’- July, 

Ef he hed n’t got some machine to try.” 

Then Sol, the little one, spoke : “ By darn ! 

Le ’s hurry back an’ hide ’n the barn, 

An’ pay him fer tellin’ us that yarn!” 

“ Agreed ! ” Through the orchard they creep back, 
Along by the fences, behind the stack, 

And one by one, through a hole in the wall, 

In under the dusty barn they crawl, 

Dressed in their Sunday garments all; 

And a very astonishing sight was that, 

When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat 
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. 
79 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And there they hid; 

And Reuben slid 

The fastenings back, and the door undid. 

“Keep dark!” said he, 

“ While I squint an’ see what the’ is to see.” 

As knights of old put on their mail, — 

From head to foot 
An iron suit, 

Iron jacket and iron boot, 

Iron breeches, and on the head 
No hat, but an iron pot instead. 

And under the chin the bail, — 

I believe they called the thing a helm; 

And the lid they carried they called a shield; 
And, thus accoutred, they took the field, 

Sallying forth to overwhelm 

The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm: 
So this modern knight 
Prepared for flight, 

Put on his wings and strapped them tight; 
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light; 

Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — 

Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! 

And a helm had he, but that he wore. 

Not on his head like those of yore, 

But more like the helm of a ship. 

“ Hush!” Reuben said, 

He’s up in the shed! 

He ’s opened the winder, — I see his head ! 

80 


DARIUS GREEN’S FLYING-MACHINE 


He stretches it out, 

An’ pokes it about, 

Lookin’ to see ’f the coast is clear, 

An’ nobody near; — 

Guess he don’o’ who’s hid in here! 

He’s riggin’ a spring-board over the sill! 

Stop laffin’, Solomon! Burke, keep still! 

He’s a climbin’ out now — Of all the things! 
What ’s he got on ? I van, it ’s wings ! 

An’ that ’t other thing? I vum, it’s a tail! 

An’ there he sets like a hawk on a rail! 

Steppin’ careful, he travels the length 
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. 
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; 
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an’ that, 

Fer to see ’f the’ ’s any one passin’ by; 

But the’ ’s on’y a ca’f an’ a goslin’ nigh. 

They turn up at him a wonderin’ eye, 

To see — The dragon! he’s goin’ to fly! 

Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! 

Flop — flop — an’ plump 
To the ground with a thump! 

Flutt’rin’ an’ flound’rin’, all ’n a lump!” 

As a demon is hurled by an angel’s spear, 

Heels over head, to his proper sphere, — 

Heels over head, and head over heels, 

Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — 

So fell Darius. Upon his crown, 

In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, 

In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, 

Broken braces and broken springs, 

81 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Broken tail and broken wings, 

Shooting-stars, and various things! 

Away with a bellow fled the calf, 

And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 

’T is a merry roar 
From the old barn-door, 

And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, 

“ Say, D’rius ! how de yeou like flyin’ ? ” 

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 

Darius just turned and looked that way, 

As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. 
“ Wal, I like flyin’ well enough,” 

He said; “but the’ ain’t sich a thunderin’ sight 
O’ fun in ’t when ye come to light.” 

MORAL 

I just have room for the moral here: 

And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere. 
Or if you insist, as you have the right, 

On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 
The moral is, — Take care how you light 

John Townsend Trowbridge, 

THE PHANTOM SHIP 

In Mather’s “ Magnalia Christi,” 

Of the old colonial time, 

May be found in prose the legend 
That is here set down in rhyme. 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 

And the keen and frosty airs, 

82 


THE PHANTOM SHIP 


That filled her sails at parting, 

Were heavy with good men’s prayers. 

“ O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure ” — 

Thus prayed the old divine — 

“To bury our friends in the ocean, 

Take them, for they are thine!” 

But Master Lamberton muttered, 

And under his breath said he, 

“This ship is so crank and walty 
I fear our grave she will be!” 

And the ships that came from England, 
When the winter months were gone, 

Brought no tidings of this vessel 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 

This put the people to praying 

That the Lord would let them hear 

What in his greater wisdom 

He had done with friends so dear. 

And at last their prayers were answered : — 
It was in the month of June, 

An hour before the sunset 
Of a windy afternoon, 

When, steadily steering landward, 

A ship was seen below, 

And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, 
Who sailed so long ago. 

83 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 

Right against the wind that blew, 

Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts. 

Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 

And her sails were loosened and lifted, 

And blown away like clouds. 

And the masts, with all their rigging, 

Fell slowly, one by one, 

And the hulk dilated and vanished. 

As a sea-mist in the sun! 

And the people who saw this marvel 
Each said unto his friend, 

That this was the mould of their vessel, 

And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer. 

That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 

He had sent this Ship of Air. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


84 


PAUL REVERE’S RIDE 


PAUL REVERE’S RIDE 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, “If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church Tower as a signal light, - 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 

For the country folk to be up and to arm.” 

Then he said, “ Good night ! ” and with muffled 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, 

And a huge black hulk that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street. 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 

85 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 

And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 

Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 

To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall. 

Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead. 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread. 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

86 



Ir 


AND YET, THROUGH THE GLOOM AND THE LIGHT, 

THE FATE OF A NATION WAS RIDING THAT NIGHT; 

AND THE SPARK STRUCK OUT BY THAT STEED, IN HIS FLIGHT, 
KINDLED THE LAND INTO FLAME WITH ITS HEAT. , 




U 






isas 

B 

r 



PAUL REVERE’S RIDE 


A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse’s side, 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth. 

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; 

But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill, 

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep. 

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep. 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 

87 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer’s dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog. 

That rises after the sun goes down. 


It was one by the village clock 
When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 


It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees. 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall. 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

88 


HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE 


You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 

How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 

From behind each fence and farmyard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road. 

And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. 

And a word that shall echo forevermore! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE 

Come, listen all unto my song; 

It is no silly fable; 

’T is all about the mighty cord 
They call the Atlantic Cable. 

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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, 

“I have a pretty notion 

That I can run a telegraph 
Across the Atlantic Ocean.” 

Then all the people laughed, and said 
They’d like to see him do it; 

He might get half-seas-over, but 
He never could go through it; 

To carry out his foolish plan 
He never would be able; 

He might as well go hang himself 
With his Atlantic Cable! 

But Cyrus was a valiant man, 

A fellow of decision; 

And heeded not their mocking words, 
Their laughter and derision. 

Twice did his bravest efforts fail, 

And yet his mind was stable; 

He wan’t the man to break his heart 
Because he broke his cable. 

“Once more, my gallant boys!” he cried; 

“ Three times ! — you know the fable ! 

(I’ll make it thirty ,” muttered he, 

“But I will lay the cable!”) 

Once more they tried, — hurrah! hurrah! 
What means this great commotion ? 

90 


THE ALARMED SKIPPER 


The Lord be praised! the cable’s laid 
Across the Atlantic Ocean! 

Loud ring the bells — for, flashing through 
Six hundred leagues of water, 

Old Mother England’s benison 
Salutes her eldest daughter! 

O’er all the land the tidings speed, 

And soon, in every nation. 

They’ll hear about the cable with 
Profoundest admiration! 

Now long live James, and long live Vic, 

And long live gallant Cyrus; 

And may his courage, faith, and zeal 
With emulation fire us; 

And may we honor evermore 
The manly, bold, and stable; 

And tell our sons, to make them brave, 

How Cyrus laid the cable! 

John Godfrey Saxe. 


THE ALARMED SKIPPER 


“It was an Ancient Mariner.” 

Many a long, long year ago, 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though “lying low,” 

How near New York their schooners ran. 
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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


They greased the lead before it fell. 

And then, by sounding through the night, 

Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, 

They always guessed their reckoning right. 

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, 

Could tell, by tasting , just the spot. 

And so below he’d “dowse the glim,” — 

After, of course, his “something hot.” 

Snug in his berth, at eight o’clock. 

This ancient skipper might be found; 

No matter how his craft would rock. 

He slept, — for skippers’ naps are sound ! 

The watch on deck would now and then 
Run down and wake him, with the lead; 

He’d up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

One night, ’t was Jotham Marden’s watch, 

A curious wag, — the peddler’s son, — 

And so he mused (the wanton wretch), 
“To-night I’ll have a grain of fun. 

“We’re all a set of stupid fools 

To think the skipper knows by tasting 

What ground he ’s on, — Nantucket schools 
Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting!’ 

And so he took the well-greased lead 
And rubbed it o’er a box of earth 
92 


JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 


That stood on deck, — a parsnip-bed, — 

And then he sought the skipper’s berth. 

“Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.” 

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 
Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, 

And then upon the floor he sprung! 

The skipper stormed and tore his hair, 

Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, 
“ Nantucket ’ s sunk , and here we are 

Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden /” 

James T. Fields. 


JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 


Have you heard the story that gossips tell 
Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well: 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns. 

He was the fellow who won renown, — 

The only man who did n’t back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town; 
But held his own in the fight next day. 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July, sixty-three, 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry, 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 

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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


I might tell how but the day before 
John Burns stood at his cottage door, 

Looking down the village street, 

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine 
He heard the low of his gathered kine. 

And felt their breath with incense sweet; 

Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell like a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail red as blood! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, — 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folk say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Raged for hours the heady fight, 

Thundered the battery’s double bass, — 
Difficult music for men to face; 

While on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all that day unceasing swept 
Up to the pits the rebels kept — 


94 


JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 


Round shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; 

Shattered fences here and there 
Tossed their splinters in the air; 

The very trees were stripped and bare; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 
Were heaped with harvests of the slain; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their nest 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed ? 

He wore an ancient long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best; 

And buttoned over his manly breast 
Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 
And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 
With tails that the country-folk called “swaller.” 
He wore a broad -brimmed, bell-crowned hat. 
White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village green, 

Since old John Burns was a country beau. 

And went to the “quiltings” long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day, 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 


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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Sunburnt and bearded, charged away* 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore, 

And hailed him from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a* slangy repertoire : 

“How are you, White Hat?” “Put her through!” 
“Your head’s level!” and “Bully for you!” 

Called him “Daddy,” — begged he’d disclose 
The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff. 

Stood there picking the rebels off, — 

With his long brown rifle and bell-crowned hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

’T was but a moment, for that respect 
Which clothes all courage their voices checked; 

And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man’s strong right hand, 

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; 

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair, 

The Past of the Nation in battle there; 

And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 

Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 

That day was their oriflamme of war. 

96 


THE MILAN BIRD-CAGES 


So raged the battle. You know the rest: 

How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 

At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows. 

And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns; 

This is the moral the reader learns: 

In fighting the battle, the question’s whether 
You’ll show a hat that’s white, or a feather! 

Francis Bret Harte. 


THE MILAN BIRD-CAGES 

1485 

I 

Just four hundred years ago 
(You may like to know), 

In a city old and quaint, 

Lived a painter who could paint 
Knight or lady, child or saint, 

With so rich a glow, 

And such wondrous skill as none 
In the Land of Art had done. 

n 

Should you ever chance to take 
(As you will) a foreign tour, 

Milan you will see, I’m sure, 

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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


For the Master’s sake, 

And be shown, in colors dim, 

One grand picture drawn by him — 
Christ’s Last Supper. If your eyes 
Fill, while gazing, no surprise 
Need be either yours or mine. 

O’er that face divine. 

hi 

Then in Paris, if you go 
To the great Louvre Gallery, where 
Miles of paintings make you stare 
Till your eyes ache, they will show 
As they point the finest out, 

One the world goes mad about — 
Such a portrait, all the while 
How it haunts you with its smile, 
Lovely Mona Lisa! she 
Can’t be bought for gold, you see; 
Not if kings should come to buy, 

Let them try! 

IV 

Oft the Master used to go 
(Old Vasari tells us so) 

To the market where they sold 
Birds, in cages gay with gold, 
Brightly tipped on wing and crest, 
Trapped just as they left the nest. 
Thither went he day by day, 

Buying all within his way, 

98 


THE MILAN BIRD-CAGES 

Making the young peasants glad, 

Since they sold him all they had; 

And no matter what his store. 

Counting birds and cages o’er, 

He was always buying more. 

v 

“Wherefore buy so many ?” Well, 

That’s just what I’m going to tell. 

Soon as he had bought a bird, 

O’er his upturned head was heard 
Such a trill, so glad, so high, 

Dropped from out the sunny sky 
Down into his happy heart; 

Filling it as naught else could — 

Naught save his beloved Art — 

Full of joy, as there he stood 
Holding wide the wicker door. 

Watching the bright captives soar 
Deep into the blue. You see 
Why he bought so many: He 
Did it just to set them free. 

VI 

Love I Leonardo so 

For his splendid pictures ? — No! 

But for his sweet soul, so stirred 
By a little prisoned bird. 

Margaret J unkin Preston. 


99 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


BISHOP HATTO AND HIS MOUSE 
TOWER 

The summer and autumn had been so wet 
That in winter the corn was growing yet, 

’T was a piteous sight to see all around 
The corn lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 

They crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door, 

For he had a plentiful last-year’s store, 

And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To quiet the poor without delay, 

He bade them to his great barn repair, 

And they should have food for the winter there. 

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, 

The poor folks flocked from far and near, — 
The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, 

And whilst for mercy on Christ they call. 

He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. 

“I’ faith ’t is an excellent bonfire!” quoth he, 
“And the country is greatly obliged to me 
100 


BISHOP HATTO AND HIS MOUSE TOWER 


For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 

Of rats that only consume the corn.” 

So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sate down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent man. 
But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning as he entered the hall, 

Where his picture hung against the wall, 

A sweat like death all over him came, 

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he looked, there came a man from his farm, 
He had a countenance white with alarm, 

“My lord, I opened your granaries this morn. 
And the rats had eaten all your corn.” 

Another came running presently. 

And he was as pale as pale could be, 

“Fly! my lord bishop, fly!” quoth he. 

“Ten thousand rats are coming this way, — 

The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! ” 

“I’ll go to my tower in the Rhine,” replied he, 

“ ’T is the safest place in Germany — 

The walls are high, and the shores are steep, 
And the tide is strong, and the water deep.” 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, 

And he crost the Rhine without delay, 

And reached his tower in the island, and barred 
All the gates secure and hard. 

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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


He laid him down and closed his eyes, — 

But soon a scream made him arise. 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 

He listened and looked; it was only the cat; 

But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, 

For she sat screaming, mad with fear, 

At the army of rats that was drawing near. 

For they have swum over the river so deep, 

And they have climbed the shores so steep, 

And up the tower their way is bent 
To do the work for which they were sent. 

They are not to be told by the dozen or score, 

By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; 
Such numbers had never been heard of before, 

Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. 

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell. 

As louder and louder drawing near 
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door. 

And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, 

And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, 
From the right and the left, from behind and before, 
From within and without, from above and below, 

And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

102 


THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW 


They have whetted their teeth against the stones. 
And now they pick the Bishop’s bones; 

They gnawed the flesh from every limb. 

For they were sent to do judgment on him. 

Robert Southey. 


THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW 

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! 

We knew that it was the last; 

That the enemy’s lines crept surely on. 

And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse than death; 

And the men and we all worked on; 

It was one day more of smoke and roar. 

And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal’s wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing. 

Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 

And I took her head on my knee; 

“When my father comes hame frae thepleugh,” shesaid, 
“Oh, then please wauken me.” 

She slept like a child on her father’s floor. 

In the flecking of woodbine-shade, 

103 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


When the house-dog sprawls by the open door. 
And the mother’s wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, 

And hopeless waiting for death; 

And the soldier’s wife, like a full-tired child, 
Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream 
Of an English village-lane, 

And wall and garden ; — but one wild scream 
Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening 
Till a sudden gladness broke 
All over her face; and she caught my hand 
And drew me near as she spoke : — 

“The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear 
The slogan far awa’ ? 

The McGregor’s. Oh! I ken it weel; 

It’s the grandest o’ them a’! 

“God bless the bonny Hielanders! 

We’re saved! we’re saved!” she cried; 

And fell on her knees; and thanks to God 
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 

Along the battery-line her cry 
Had fallen among the men, 

And they started back; — they were there to die; 
But was life so near them, then ? 

104 


THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW 


They listened for life; the rattling fire 
Far off, and the far-off roar, 

Were all; and the colonel shook his head, 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

But Jessie said, “The slogan’s done; 

But winna ye hear it noo ? 

“The Campbells are comm’” ? It’s no a dream; 
Our succors hae broken through!” 

We heard the roar and the rattle afar. 

But the pipes we could not hear; 

So the men plied their work of hopeless war. 
And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it made its way, — 

A thrilling, ceaseless sound: 

It was no noise from the strife afar, 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipes of the Highlanders! 

And now they played “Auld Lang Syne.” 
It came to our men like the voice of God, 

And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept, and shook one another’s hands, 
And the women sobbed in a crowd; 

And every one knelt down where he stood, 

And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy time, when we welcomed them, 
Our men put Jessie first; 

105 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And the general gave her his hand, and cheers 
Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 

And the pipers’ ribbons and tartan streamed, 
Marching round and round our line; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears. 
As the pipes played “Auld Lang Syne.” 

Robert Traill Spence Lowell. 


KING VOLMER AND ELSIE 

After the Danish of Christian Winter 

Where, over heathen doom-rings and gray stones of the 
Horg, 

In its little Christian city stands the church of Vording- 
borg, 

In merry mood King Yolmer sat, forgetful of his 
power, 

As idle as the Goose of Gold that brooded on his tower. 

Out spake the king to Henrik, his young and faithful 
squire : 

“Dar’st trust the little Elsie, the maid of thy desire?” 

“Of all the men in Denmark she loveth only me: 

As true to me is Elsie as thy Lily is to thee.” 

Loud laughed the king: “To-morrow shall bring an- 
other day, 

When I myself will test her; she will not say me 
nay.” 


106 


KING VOLMER AND ELSIE 

Thereat the lords and gallants, that round about him 
stood, 

Wagged all their heads in concert and smiled as cour- 
tiers should. 

The gray lark sings o’er Vordingborg, and on the ancient 
town 

From the tall tower of Valdemar the Golden Goose looks 
down: 

The yellow grain is waving in the pleasant wind of 
morn; 

The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of 
hunter’s horn. 

In the garden of her father little Elsie sits and spins, 

And, singing with the early birds, her daily task begins. 

Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls around her 
garden-bower, 

But she is sweeter than the mint and fairer than the 
flower. 

About her form her kirtle blue clings lovingly, and, white 

As snow, her loose sleeves only leave her small, round 
wrists in sight; 

Below, the modest petticoat can only half conceal 

The motion of the lightest foot that ever turned a wheel. 

The cat sits purring at her side, bees hum in sunshine 
warm; 

But, look, she starts, she lifts her face, she shades it with 
her arm. 


107 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And, hark! a train of horsemen, with sound of dog and 
horn, 

Come leaping o’er the ditches, come trampling down 
the corn! 

Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf and plume 
streamed gay, 

As fast beside her father’s gate the riders held their way; 

And one was brave in scarlet cloak, with golden spur on 
heel, 

And, as he checked his foaming steed, the maiden checked 
her wheel. 

“All hail among thy roses, the fairest rose to me! 

For weary months in secret my heart has longed for 
thee!” 

What noble knight was this ? What words for modest 
maiden’s ear? 

She dropped a lowly courtesy of bashfulness and fear. 

She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she fain would seek 
the door, 

Trembling in every limb, her cheek with blushes crim- 
soned o’er. 

“Nay, fear me not,” the rider said, “I offer heart and 
hand, 

Bear witness these good Danish knights who round 
about me stand. 

“I grant you time to think of this, to answer as you may, 

For to-morrow, little Elsie, shall bring another day.” 

108 


KING VOLMER AND ELSIE 


He spake the old phrase slyly as, glancing round his train. 

He saw his merry followers seek to hide their smiles in 
vain. 

“The snow of pearls I’ll scatter in your curls of golden 
hair, 

I’ll line with furs the velvet of the kirtle that you wear; 

All precious gems shall twine your neck; and in a 
chariot gay 

You shall ride, my little Elsie, behind four steeds of 
gray. 

“And harps shall sound, and flutes shall play, and brazen 
lamps shall glow; 

On marble floors your feet shall weave the dances to and 
fro. 

At frosty eventide for us the blazing hearth shall shine, 

While, at our ease, we play at draughts, and drink the 
blood-red wine.” 

Then Elsie raised her head and met her wooer face to 
face; 

A roguish smile shone in her eye and on her lip found 
place. 

Back from her low white forehead the curls of gold she 
threw, 

And lifted up her eyes to his, steady and clear and blue. 

“I am a lowly peasant, and you a gallant knight; 

I will not trust a love that soon may cool and turn to 
slight. 


109 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


If you would wed me, henceforth be a peasant, not a 
lord, — 

I bid you hang upon the wall your tried and trusty 
sword.” 

“To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen Dynadel away, 

And in its place will swing the scythe and mow your 
father’s hay.” 

“Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak my eyes can never 
bear; 

A Yadmal coat, so plain and gray, is all that you must 
wear.” 

“Well, Vadmal will I wear for you,” the rider gayly 
spoke, 

“And on the Lord’s high altar I ’ll lay my scarlet cloak.” 

“But mark,” she said, “no stately horse my peasant love 
must ride, 

A yoke of steers before the plough is all that he must 
guide.” 

The knight looked down upon his steed: “Well, let him 
wander free: 

No other man must ride the horse that has been backed 
by me. 

Henceforth I’ll tread the furrow and to my oxen talk, 

If only little Elsie beside my plough will walk.” 

“You must take from out your cellar cask of wine and 
flask and can; 

The homely mead I brew you may serve a peasant-man.” 


KING VOLMER AND ELSIE 


“Most willingly, fair Elsie, I ’ll drink that mead of thine, 

And leave my minstrel’s thirsty throat to drain my gen- 
erous wine.” 

“Now break your shield asunder, and shatter sign and 
boss. 

Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your knightly knee 
across. 

And pull me down your castle from top to basement wall, 

And let your plough trace furrows in the ruins of your 
hall!” 

Then smiled he with a lofty pride; right well at last he 
knew 

The maiden of the spinning-wheel was to her troth- 
plight true. 

“Ah, roguish little Elsie, you act your part full well. 

You know that I must bear my shield and in my castle 
dwell! 

“The lions ramping on that shield between the hearts 
aflame 

Keep watch o’er Denmark’s honor, and guard her an- 
cient name. 

You know that I am Volmer; I dwell in yonder towers. 

Who ploughs them ploughs up Denmark, this goodly 
home of ours! 

“I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart I know is true; 

Would God that all our maidens were good and pure as 
you! 


Ill 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 

Well have you pleased your monarch, and he shall well 
repay; 

God’s peace! Farewell! To-morrow will bring another 
day!” 

He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred his good steed 
then, 

And like a whirl-blast swept away with all his gallant 
men. 

The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; again on winds of 
morn 

The wood resounds with cry of hounds and blare of 
hunter’s horn. 

“Thou true and ever faithful!” the listening Henrik 
cried ; 

And, leaping o’er the green hedge, he stood by Elsie’s 
side. 

None saw the fond embracing, save, shining from afar, 

The Golden Goose that watched them from the tower 
of Valdemar. 

O darling girls of Denmark! of all the flowers that 
throng 

Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing for you my song. 

No praise as yours so bravely rewards the singer’s skill; 

Thank God! of maids like Elsie the land has plenty 
still ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


112 


THE HIGH TIDE OF LINCOLNSHIRE 


THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE 

1571 

The old mayor climb’d the belfry tower, 

The ringers ran by two, by three; 

“Pull, if ye never pull’d before; 

Good ringers, pull your best,” quoth he. 
“Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! 

Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ‘The Brides of Enderby.’” 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall: 

And there was nought of strange, beside 
The flight of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouch’d on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I rais’d myne eyes; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 

Lay sinking in the barren skies; 

And dark against day’s golden death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My sonne’s faire wife, Elizabeth. 

“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling, 

Ere the early dews were falling, 

113 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Farre away I heard her song, 

“Cusha! Cusha!” all along; 

Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 

From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song, 

“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling, 

“For the dews will soone be falling; 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 

Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 

From the clovers lift your head; 

Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, 
Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow, 

Jetty, to the milking shed.” 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 

And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

114 


THE HIGH TIDE OF LINCOLNSHIRE 


Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple tower’d from out the greene; 
And lo! the great bell farre and wide 
Was heard in all the countryside 
That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Mov’d on in sunset’s golden breath. 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre. 

And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth; 

Till floating o’er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free, 

The “Brides of Mavis Enderby.” 

Then some look’d uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, “And why should this thing be? 
What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby! 

“For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down; 

For shippes ashore beyond the scope, 

They have not spar’d to wake the towne; 
But while the west bin red to see, 

And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 

Why ring ‘The Brides of Enderby’?” 

I look’d without, and lo! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main: 

115 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


He rais’d a shout as he drew on, 

Till all the welkin rang again, 

‘ ‘ Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! ’ ’ 

(A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath 
Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.) 

“The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The rising tide comes on apace. 

And boats adrift in yonder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place.” 

He shook as one that looks on death: 

“God save you, mother!” straight he saith; 

“Where is my wife, Elizabeth?” 

“Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way. 
With her two bairns I marked her long, 
And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking song.” 

He looked across the grassy lea. 

To right, to left, “Ho, Enderby!” 

They rang “The Brides of Enderby!” 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For, lo! along the river’s bed 
A mighty eygre rear’d his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 

It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
Shap’d like a curling snow-white cloud. 

Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward press’d 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; 

116 


THE HIGH TIDE OF LINCOLNSHIRE 


Then madly at the eygre’s breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat 
Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobb’d in the grasses at oure feet: 

The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by; 

I mark’d the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 
A lurid mark and dread to see; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang “Enderby.” 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless row’d; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 

And yet the ruddy beacon glow’d: 

And yet he moan’d beneath his breath, 

“O come in life, or come in death! 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth.” 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; 

117 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 

The lifted sun shone on thy face, 

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strew’d wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 

To manye more than myne and mee; 
But each will mourn his own (she saith); 
And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath 
Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 

“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling. 

Ere the early dews be falling; 

I shall never hear her song, 

“Cusha! Cusha!” all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth; 

From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 

Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 
Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
Shiver, quiver; 

Stand beside the sobbing river, 

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
118 


THE ONE-HOSS SHAY 

To the sandy lonesome shone; 

I shall never hear her calling, 

“Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 

Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 

From your clovers lift the head; 

Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, 

Jetty, to the milking shed.” 

Jean Ingelow. 

THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE; OR, 
THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY 

A LOGICAL STORY 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 

I’ll tell you what happened without delay. 

Scaring the parson into fits, 

Frightening people out of their wits, — 

Have you ever heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 

Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 

119 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 

That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 

And Braddock’s army was done so brown, 

Left without a scalp to its crown. 

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 

There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still. 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 

Above or below, or within or without, — 

And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, 

A chaise breaks down , but does n’t wear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do. 

With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”) 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 
’n’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’; 

It should be so built that it couldrd break daown: 
— “Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain 
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain; 

’n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 

T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.” 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 

120 





THE ONE-HOSS SHAY 


That could n’t be split nor bent nor broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and sills; 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills; 

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these; 

The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” — 
Last of its timber, — they could n’t sell ’em, 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips. 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 

That was the way he “put her through.” — 
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!” 

Do! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 

Children and grandchildren — where were they ? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon -earthquake day! 

Eighteen hundred; — it came and found 
The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — 

121 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then. 

Eighteen hundred and twenty came; 

Running as usual; much the same. 

Thirty and forty at last arrive, 

And then come fifty and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. You’re welcome. No extra charge.) 

First of November, — the Earthquake-day. — 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 

A general flavor of mild decay, 

But nothing local as one may say. 

There could n’t be, — for the Deacon’s art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there was n’t a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the floor, 

And the whippletree neither less nor more, 

And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, 

And spring and axle and hub encore. 

And yet, as a whole , it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, Fifty-five! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

122 


THE ONE-HOSS SHAY 


Now, small boys, get out of the way! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
“Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday’s text, — 
Had got to fifthly , and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 

All at once the horse stood still, 

Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a spill, — 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 

At half past nine by the meet’n’-house clock, — 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 

— What do you think the parson found, 

When he got up and stared around ? 

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 

As if it had been to the mill and ground! 

You see, of course, if you ’re not a dunce, 

How it went to pieces all at once, — 

All at once, and nothing first, — 

Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 

Logic is logic. That’s all I say. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


123 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


HORATIUS 

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE 
CITY CCCLX 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 
By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 
Should suffer wrong no more. 

By the Nine Gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting day, 

And bade his messengers ride forth. 

East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 
The messengers ride fast, 

And tower and town and cottage 
Have heard the trumpet’s blast. 

Shame on the false Etruscan 
Who lingers in his home. 

When Porsena of Clusium 
Is on the march for Rome. 

The horsemen and the footmen 
Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place; 

From many a fruitful plain; 

From many a lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 

124 


HORATIUS 


Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest 
Of purple Apennine; 

From lordly Volaterrse, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 

Piled by the hands of giants 
For godlike kings of old; 

From seagrit Populonia, 

Whose sentinels descry 

Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops 
Fringing the southern sky; 

From the proud mart of Pisse, 

Queen of the western waves, 

Where ride Massilia’s triremes 
Heavy with fair-haired slaves; 

From where sweet Clanis wanders 
Through corn and vines and flowers; 

From where Cortona lifts to heaven 
Her diadem of towers. 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 
Drop in dark Auser’s rill; 

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 
Of the Ciminian hill; 

Beyond all streams Clitumnus 
Is to the herdsman dear; 

Best of all pools the fowler loves 
The great Volsinian mere. 

But now no stroke of woodman 
Is heard by Auser’s rill; 

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STORY-TELLING POEMS 


No hunter tracks the stag’s green path 
Up the Ciminian hill; 

Unwatched along Clitumnus 
Grazes the milk-white steer; 

Unharmed the waterfowl may dip 
In the Volsinian mere. 

The harvests of Arretium, 

This year, old men shall reap, 

This year, young boys in Umbro 
Shall plunge the struggling sheep; 

And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 

Round the white feet of laughing girls 
Whose sires have marched to Rome. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the land, 

Who alway by Lars Porsena 
Both morn and evening stand: 

Evening and morn the Thirty 
Have turned the verses o’er, 

Traced from the right on linen white 
By mighty seers of yore. 

And with one voice the Thirty 
Have their glad answer given : 

“ Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven: 

Go, and return in glory 
To Clusium’s royal dome; 

126 


HORATIUS 


And hang round Nurscia’s altars 
The golden shields of Rome.” 

And now hath every city 
Sent up her tale of men: 

The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 

Before the gates of Sutrium 
Is met the great array. 

A proud man was Lars Porsena 
Upon the trysting day. 

For all the Etruscan armies 
Were ranged beneath his eye, 

And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally; 

And with a mighty following 
To join the muster came 

The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

But by the yellow Tiber 
Was tumult and affright: 

From all the spacious champaign 
To Rome men took their flight. 

A mile around the city, 

The throng stopped up the ways; 

A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days. 

For aged folks on crutches, 

And women great with child, 

127 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And mothers sobbing over babes 
That clung to them and smiled, 

And sick men borne in litters 
High on the necks of slaves, 

And troops of sunburnt husbandmen 
With reaping-hooks and staves, 

And droves of mules and asses 
Laden with skins of wine, 

And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 
And endless herds of kine, 

And endless trains of wagons 
That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods. 
Choked every roaring gate. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 
Red in the midnight sky. 

The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day, 

For every hour some horseman came 
With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 
Have spread the Tuscan bands; 

Nor house nor fence nor dovecote 
In Crustumerium stands. 

Verbenna down to Ostia 
Hath wasted all the plain; 

128 


HORATIUS 


Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold, 

But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 

Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all; 

In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 
Before the River-Gate; 

Short time was there, ye well may guess, 
For musing or debate. 

Out spake the Consul roundly: 

“The bridge must straight go down; 

For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town.” 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear: 

“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: 

Lars Porsena is here.” 

On the low hills to westward 
The Consul fixed his eye, 

And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come; 

129 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And louder still and still more loud, 

From underneath that rolling cloud, 

Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, 
The trampling, and the hum. 

And plainly and more plainly 
Now through the gloom appears, 

Far to left and far to right, 

In broken gleams of dark-blue light. 

The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

And plainly, and more plainly 
Above that glimmering line, 

Now might ye see the banners 
Of twelve fair cities shine; 

But the banner of proud Clusium 
Was highest of them all, 

The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 
Now might the burghers know. 

By port and vest, by horse and crest, 
Each warlike Lucumo. 

There Cilnius of Arretium 
On his fleet roan was seen; 

And Astur of the fourfold shield, 

Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 

And dark Verbenna from the hold 
By reedy Thrasymene. 

130 


HORATIUS 


Fast by the royal standard, 
O’erlooking all the war, 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 
Sat in his ivory car. 

By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 
Prince of the Latian name; 

And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 
Was seen among the foes, 

A yell that rent the firmament 
From all the town arose. 

On the house-tops was no woman 
But spat towards him and hissed, 

No child but screamed out curses, 
And shook its little fist. 

But the Consul’s brow was sad, 

And the Consul’s speech was low. 

And darkly looked he at the wall, 
And darkly at the foe. 

“Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down; 

And if they once may win the bridge. 
What hope to save the town ? ” 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the Gate: 

“To every man upon this earth 
Death cometh soon or late. 

131 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And how can man die better 
Than facing fearful odds, 

For the ashes of his fathers. 

And the temples of his gods, 

“And for the tender mother 
Who dandled him to rest, 

And for the wife who nurses 
His baby at her breast, 

And for the holy maidens 
Who feed the eternal flame, 

To save them from false Sextus 
That wrought the deed of shame ? 

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 
With all the speed ye may; 

I, with two more to help me. 

Will hold the foe in play. 

In yon strait path a thousand 
May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand. 
And keep the bridge with me ? ” 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 

A Ramnian proud was he: 

“ Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 
And keep the bridge with thee.” 
And out spake strong Herminius; 

Of Titian blood was he : 

“I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee.” 

132 


HORATIUS 


“Horatius,” quoth the Consul, 

“As thou sayest, so let it be.” 

And straight against that great array 
Forth went the dauntless Three. 

For Romans in Rome’s quarrel 
Spared neither land nor gold, 

Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

Then none was for a party; 

Then all were for the state; 

Then the great man helped the poor, 
And the poor man loved the great: 

Then lands were fairly portioned; 

Then spoils were fairly sold: 

The Romans were like brothers 
In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 
More hateful than a foe, 

And the Tribunes beard the high, 

And the Fathers grind the low. 

As we wax hot in faction, 

In battle we wax cold: 

Wherefore men fight not as they fought 
In the brave days of old. 

Now while the Three were tightening 
Their harness on their backs, 

The Consul was the foremost man 
To take in hand an axe: 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And Fathers mixed with Commons 
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 

And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 

Right glorious to behold, 

Came flashing back the noonday light, 

Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
Of a broad sea of gold. 

Four hundred trumpets sounded 
A peal of warlike glee, 

As that great host, with measured tread, 

And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, 
Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes. 

And a great shout of laughter 
From all the vanguard rose; 

And forth three chiefs came spurring 
Before that deep array; 

To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 
To win the narrow way; 

Aunus from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines; 

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
Sicken in Ilva’s mines; 

134 


HORATIUS 


And Picus, long to Clusium 
Vassal in peace and war, 

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
From that gray crag where, girt with towers, 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 
O’er the pale waves of Nar. 

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 
Into the stream beneath: 

Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth: 

At Picus brave Horatius 
Darted one fiery thrust; 

And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms 
Clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman Three; 

And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea; 

And Aruns of Volsinium, 

Who slew the great wild boar, 

The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen, 

And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 
Along Albinia’s shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns: 

Lartius laid Ocnus low: 

Right to the heart of Lausulus 
Horatius sent a blow. 

135 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate! 

No more, aghast and pale, 

From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark 

The track of thy destroying bark. 

No more Campania’s hinds shall fly 

To woods and caverns when they spy 
Thy thrice accursed sail.” 

But now no sound of laughter 
Was heard among the foes. 

A wild and wrathful clamor 
From all the vanguard rose. 

Six spears’ lengths from the entrance 
Halted that deep array, 

And for a space no man came forth 
To win the narrow way. 

But hark! the cry is Astur: 

And lo! the ranks divide; 

And the great Lord of Luna 
Comes with his stately stride. 

Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 

And in his hand he shakes the brand 
Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 
A smile serene and high; 

He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 

Quote he, “The she-wolf’s litter 
Stand savagely at bay: 

136 


HORATIUS 


But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way ? ” 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 
With both hands to the height, 

He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 

With shield and blade Horatius 
Right deftly turned the blow. 

The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh 

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: 

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
To see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 
He leaned one breathing-space; 

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, 
Sprang right at Astur’s face. 

Through teeth, and skull, and helmet 
So fierce a thrust he sped, 

The good sword stood a handbreadth out 
Behind the Tuscan’s head. 

And the great Lord of Luna 
Fell at that deadly stroke, 

As falls on Mount Alvernus 
A thunder-smitten oak. 

Far o’er the crashing forest 
The giant arms lie spread; 

And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

137 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


On Astur’s throat Horatius 
Right firmly pressed his heel, 

And thrice and four times tugged amain, 
Ere he wrenched out the steel. 

“And see,” he cried, “the welcome, 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 

What noble Lucumo comes next 
To taste our Roman cheer?” 

But at his haughty challenge 
A sullen murmur ran, 

Mingled of wrath and shame and dread, 
Along that glittering van. 

There lacked not men of prowess, 

Nor men of lordly race; 

For all Etruria’s noblest 
Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria’s noblest 
Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses, 

In the path the dauntless Three: 

And, from the ghastly entrance 
Where those bold Romans stood, 

All shrank, like boys who unaware, 
Ranging the woods to start a hare, 

Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 
To lead such dire attack: 

138 


HORATIUS 


But those behind cried, “ Forward! ” 
And those before cried, “Back!” 
And backward now and forward 
Wavers the deep array; 

And on the tossing sea of steel, 

To and fro the standards reel; 

And the victorious trumpet-peal 
Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 
Stood out before the crowd; 

Well known was he to all the Three, 
And they gave him greeting loud, 
“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home! 

Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 
Here lies the road to Rome.” 

Thrice looked he at the city; 

Thrice looked he at the dead; 

And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 
Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood. 
The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 
Have manfully been plied; 

And now the bridge hangs tottering 
Above the boiling tide. 

139 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“Come back, come back, Horatius!” 

Loud cried the Fathers all, 

“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall!” 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted back: 

And, as they passed, beneath their feet 
They felt the timbers crack. 

But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder 
Fell every loosened beam, 

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
Lay right athwart the stream; 

And a long shout of triumph 
Rose from the walls of Rome, 

As to the highest turret-tops 
Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 
When first he feels the rein, 

The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane, 

And burst the curb, and bounded, 
Rejoicing to be free, 

And whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
Rushed headlong to the sea. 

140 


HORATIUS 


Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind; 

Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
And the broad flood behind. 

“Down with him!” cried false Sextus, 
With a smile on his pale face. 

“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena, 
“Now yield thee to our grace.” 

Round turned he, as not deigning 
Those craven ranks to see; 

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he; 

But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 

And he spake to the noble river 
That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

“O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms. 

Take thou in charge this day!” 

So he spake, and speaking sheathed 
The good sword by his side, 

And with his harness on his back 
Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank, 

But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 
Stood gazing where he sank; 

141 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And when above the surges 
They saw his crest appear, 

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 
Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain: 

And fast his blood was flowing, 

And he was sore in pain, 

And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows: 

And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, 

In such an evil case, 

Struggle through such a raging flood 
Safe to the landing-place: 

But his limbs were borne up bravely 
By the brave heart within, 

And our good Father Tiber 
Bore bravely up his chin. 

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus; 

“ Will not the villain drown ? 

But for this stay, ere close of day 
We should have sacked the town!” 

“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena, 
“And bring him safe to shore; 

For such a gallant feat of arms 
Was never seen before.” 

142 


HORATIUS 

And now he feels the bottom; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 

Now round him throng the Fathers 
To press his gory hands; 

And now, with shouts and clapping, 
And noise of weeping loud. 

He enters through the River-Gate, 
Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 

As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night; 

And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 

And there it stands unto this day 
To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see; 

Horatius in his harness, 

Halting upon one knee: 

And underneath is written, 

In letters all of gold, 

How valiantly he kept the bridge 
In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 
Unto the men of Rome, 

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
To charge the Volscian home; 

143 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And wives still pray to Juno 
For boys with hearts as bold 

As his who kept the bridge so well 
In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north-winds blow, 

And the long howling of the wolves 
Is heard amidst the snow; 

When round the lonely cottage 
Roars loud the tempest’s din, 

And the good logs of Algidus 
Roar louder yet within; 

When the oldest cask is opened, 

And the largest lamp is lit; 

When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
And the kid turns on the spit; 

When young and old in circle 
Around the firebrands close; 

When the girls are weaving baskets, 

And the lads are shaping bows: 

When the goodman mends his armor, 

And trims his helmet’s plume; 

When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily 
Goes flashing through the loom; 

With weeping and with laughter 
Still is the story told. 

How well Horatius kept the bridge 
In the brave days of old. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

144 


LOCHINVAR 


LOCHINVAR 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; 
And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and 
all: 

Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
“ Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ” 

“ I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” 
145 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up, 

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the 
cup. 

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 
plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, “ *T were better by 
far, 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- 
var.” 

One touch to her hand, and one word to her ear, 
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood 
near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; 
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young 
Lochinvar. 

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby 
clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 
ran: 


146 


THE INCHCAPE ROCK 


There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 


THE INCHCAPE ROCK 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 

The ship was still as she could be; 

Her sails from heaven received no motion; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surge’s swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell; 

And then they knew the perilous rock, 

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay; 

All things were joyful on that day; 

147 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round. 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, 

A darker speck on the ocean green: 

Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 

And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring; 

It made him whistle, it made him sing: 

His heart was mirthful to excess, 

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float; 

Quoth he, “ My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound; 

The bubbles rose and burst around: 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “ The next who comes to the rock 
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; 

He scoured the seas for many a day; 

And now, grown rich with plundered store, 

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. 

148 


THE INCHCAPE ROCK 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, 

They cannot see the sun on high: 

The wind hath blown a gale all day; 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; 

So dark it is, they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon, 

For there is the dawn of the rising moon.” 

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore.” 

“ Now where we are I cannot tell, 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.” 

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: 
“O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

He curst himself in his despair: 

The waves rush in on every side; 

The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, — 

A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 

The Devil below was ringing his knell. 

Robert Southey. 


149 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


HERVE RIEL 

i 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 

Did the English fight the French, — woe to France! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the 
blue, 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 

Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the 
Ranee, 

With the English fleet in view. 

ii 

’T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in 
full chase; 

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville; 

Close on him fled, great and small, 

Twenty-two good ships in all; 

And they signaled to the place 

“ Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, 
quicker still, 

Here’s the English can and will ! 

hi 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on 
board ; 

“ Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to 
pass?” laughed they; 

150 


HERVE RIEL 

“Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 
scarred and scored, 

Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty 
guns 

Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
way, 

Trust to enter where ’t is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside ? 

Now, ’t is slackest ebb of tide. 

Reach the mooring? Rather say, 

While rock stands or water runs, 

Not a ship will leave the bay!” 

IV 

Then was called a council straight. 

Brief and bitter the debate: 

“ Here ’s the English at our heels ; would you have them 
take in tow 

All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 

Better run the ships aground!” 

(Ended Damfreville his speech). 

“Not a minute more to wait! 

Let the captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the 
beach ! 

France must undergo her fate. 

v 

“ Give the word ! ” But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 

151 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all 

these 

— A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — first, second, 
third ? 

No such man of mark, and meet 

With his betters to compete! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville 
for the fleet, 

A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

VI 

And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries 
Herve Riel: 

“Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, 
fools, or rogues ? 

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the sound- 
ings, tell 

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 

’Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river dis- 
embogues ? 

Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the lying ’s 
for? 

Morn and eve, night and day, 

Have I piloted your bay, 

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse 
than fifty Hogues! 

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe 
me there’s a way! 

Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 

152 


HERVE RIEL 

Get this Formidable clear, 

Make the others follow mine, 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know 
well. 

Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 

And if one ship misbehave, 

— Keel so much as grate the ground. 

Why, I’ve nothing but my life, — here’s my head!” 
cries Herve Riel. 

VII 

Not a minute more to wait. 

“Steer us in, then, small and great! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” 
cried its chief. 

Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 

Still the north-wind, by God’s grace! 

See the noble fellow’s face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 

Clears the entry like a hound. 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide 
sea’s profound! 

See, safe through shoal and rock. 

How they follow in a flock, 

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief! 

The peril, see, is past. 

All are harbored to the last, 

153 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And just as Herve Riel hollas “Anchor!” — sure as 
fate, 

Up the English come — too late ! 

VIII 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 

They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o’erlooking Greve. 

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 

“Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 

Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
As they cannonade away! 

’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee!” 

How hope succeeds despair on each captain’s coun- 
tenance ! 

Out burst all with one accord, 

“This is Paradise for Hell! 

Let France, let France’s King 
Thank the man that did the thing!” 

What a shout, and all one word, 

“Herve Riel!” 

As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes. 

Just the same man as before. 

IX 

Then said Damfreville, “My friend, 

I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 

154 


HERVE RIEL 


Praise is deeper than the lips: 

You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 

’Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 

Demand whate’er you will, 

France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not 
Damfreville.” 


x 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 

“Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty’s done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
but a run ? — 

Since ’t is ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 

Come! A good whole holiday! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 
Aurore ! ” 

That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 

XI 

Name and deed alike are lost: 

Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 

Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing smack. 

155 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence Eng- 
land bore the bell. 

Go to Paris: rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve 
Riel. 

So, for better and for worse, 

Herve Riel, accept my verse! 

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the 
Belle Aurore! 

Robert Browning. 

ABOU BEN ADHEM 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 

And saw within the moonlight in the room, 

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 

An angel writing in a book of gold; 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 

And to the Presence in the room he said, 

“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, 
And with a look made all of sweet accord, 

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” 
“And is mine one?” said Adhem. “Nay, not so,” 
Replied the angel. Adhem spoke more low, 

But cheerly still, and said, “I pray thee, then, 

Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.” 

156 


IN SCHOOL-DAYS 


The angel wrote and vanished; the next night 
He came again with a great wakening light, 

And showed their names whom love of God had blest. 
And lo ! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 

IN SCHOOL-DAYS 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning; 

Around it still the sumachs grow 
And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master’s desk is seen, 

Deep scarred by raps official. 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife’s carved initial; 

The charcoal frescoes on its wall; 

Its door’s worn sill, betraying 

The feet that, creeping slow to school. 

Went storming out to playing! 

Long years ago a winter sun 
Shone over it at setting; 

Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves’ icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 

And brown eyes full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

157 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled; 

His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hand’s light caressing, 

And heard the tremble of her voice. 

As if a fault confessing. 

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word; 

I hate to go above you. 

Because,” — the brown eyes lower fell, — 

“ Because, you see, I love you!” 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing! 

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school. 

How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss, 

Like her, — * because they love him. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


158 


TELLING THE BEES 


TELLING THE BEES 

Here is the place; right over the hill 
Runs the path I took; 

You can see the gap in the old wall still, 

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 

And the poplars tall; 

And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard, 
And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; 

And down by the brink 

Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed o’er run, 
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 

Heavy and slow; 

And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 
And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There’s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; 
And the June sun warm 

Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, 

Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover’s care 
From my Sunday coat 

I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair. 

And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. 

159 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Since we parted, a month had passed, — 

To love, a year; 

Down through the beeches I looked at last 
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, — the slantwise rain 
Of light through the leaves, 

The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane, 

The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, — 

The house and the trees, 

The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door, — 
Nothing changed but the hive of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall, 

Forward and back, 

Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, 
Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun 
Had the chill of snow; 

For I knew she was telling the bees of one 
Gone on the journey we all must go! 

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps 
For the dead to-day: 

Haply her blind grandsire sleeps 

The fret and the pain of his age away.” 

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, 
With his cane to his chin, 

160 


THROUGH THE FLOOD ON FOOT 


The old man sat; and the chore-girl still 
Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since 
In my ear sounds on : — 

Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! 
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!” 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


THROUGH THE FLOOD ON FOOT 

The sun had sunk in the west 
For a little while, 

And the clouds which gathered to see him die 
Had caught his dying smile. 

We sat in the door of our tent 
In the cool of the day. 

Toward the quiet meadow 
Where misty shadows lay. 

The great and terrible land 
Of wilderness and drought 

Lay in the shadows behind us, 

For the Lord had brought us out. 

The great and terrible river. 

Though shrouded still from view, 

Lay in the shadows before us. 

But the Lord would bear us through. 

161 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


In the stillness and the starlight, 

In sight of the Blessed Land, 

We thought of the bygone desert life 
And the burning, blinding sand. 

Many a dreary sunset. 

Many a dreary dawn, 

We had watched upon those desert hills 
As we pressed slowly on. 

Yet sweet had been the silent dews 
Which from God’s presence fell; 

And the still hours of resting 
By palm-tree and by well, 

Till we pitched our tent at last. 

The desert done, 

Where we saw the hills of the Holy Land 
Gleam in our sinking sun. 

And we sat in the door of our tent 
In the cool of the day, 

Toward the quiet meadow 
Where misty shadows lay. 

ft 

We were talking about the King 
And our Elder Brother, 

As we were used often to speak 
One to another. 

The Lord standing quietly by 
In the shadows dim, 

162 


THROUGH THE FLOOD ON FOOT 


Smiling, perhaps, in the dark, to hear 
Our sweet, sweet talk of Him. 

“I think in a little while,” 

I said at length, 

“We shall see His face in the city 
Of everlasting strength; 

“And sit down under the shadow 
Of His smile, 

With great delight and thanksgiving, 

To rest awhile.” 

‘ But the river, — the awful river ! 

In the dying light;” 

And even as he spoke, the murmur 
Of a river rose on the night! 

And one came up through the meadow. 
Where the mists lay dim. 

Till He stood by my friend in the starlight, 
And spake to him: 

“I have come to call thee home,” 

Said our veiled Guest; 

“The terrible journey of life is done; 

I will take thee into rest. 

“Arise! thou shalt come to the palace, 

To rest thee forever;” 

And He pointed across the dark meadow 
And down to the river. 

163 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And my friend rose up in the shadows 
And turned to me — 

“Be of good cheer,” I said faintly, 

“For He calleth thee.” 

For I knew by His loving voice, 

His kingly word. 

The veiled Guest in the starlight dim 
Was Christ, the Lord! 

So we three went slowly down 
To the river side, 

Till we stood in the heavy shadows 
By the black, wild tide. 

I could hear that the Lord was speaking 
Deep words of grace, 

I could see their blessed reflection 
On my friend’s pale face. 

The strong and desolate tide 
Was hurrying wildly past. 

As he turned to take my hand once more, 
And say “Farewell” at last. 

“Farewell — I cannot fear. 

Oh ! seest thou His grace ? ” 

And even as he spoke, he turned 
Again to the Master’s face. 

So they two went closer down 
To the river side, 

164 


THROUGH THE FLOOD ON FOOT 


And stood in the heavy shadows 
By the black, wild tide. 

But when the feet of the Lord 
Were come to the waters dim, 

They rose to stand, on either hand, 

And left a path for Him. 

So they two passed over swiftly 
Toward the goal; 

But the wistful, longing gaze 
Of the passing soul 

Grew only more rapt and joyful 
As he clasped the Master’s hand; 

I think, or ever he was aware, 

They were come to the Holy Land. 

Now I sit alone in the door of my tent 
In the cool of the day, 

Toward the quiet meadow 
Where misty shadows play. 

The great and terrible land 
Of wilderness and drought 

Lies in the shadows behind me, 

For the Lord hath brought me out. 

The great and terrible river 
I stood that night to view, 

Lies in the shadows before me, 

But the Lord will bear me through. 

Unknown. 


165 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away 
On a little mound, Napoleon 
Stood on our storming-day; 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mus’d, “My plans 
That soar, to earth may fall. 

Let once my army leader Lannes 
Waver at yonder wall,” — 

Out ’twixt the battery smokes there flew 
A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 
Until he reach’d the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse’s mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 

(So tight he kept his lips compress’d, 

Scarce any blood came through) 

You look’d twice ere you saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two. 

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace 
We’ve got you Ratisbon! 

166 


LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER 


The Marshal’s in the market-place, 

And you’ll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
Where I, to heart’s desire, 

Perch’d him ! ” The chief’s eye flash’d ; his plans 
Soar’d up again like fire. 

The chief’s eye flash’d; but presently 
Soften’d itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle’s eye 

When her bruis’d eaglet breathes. 

“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride 
Touch’d to the quick, he said, 

“ I ’m kill’d, Sire ! ” And his chief beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning. 

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound 
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! 

And I’ll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o’er the ferry ! ” * — 

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water ? ” — 

“Oh, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, 

And this. Lord Ullin’s daughter. 

“ And fast before her father’s men 
Three days we’ve fled together, 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. 

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride, — 
Should they our steps discover, 

Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover ? ” 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
“I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready: 

It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady: 

“ And by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry; 

So though the waves are raging white, 
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water- wraith was shrieking; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men. 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

“Oh, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, 
“Though tempests round us gather; 

I’ll meet the raging of the skies. 

But not an angry father!” 

168 


THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS 


The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 

When, oh! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And still they row’d amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 

Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore, — 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay’d through storm and shade 
His child he did discover: 

One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief, 

“ Across this stormy water. 

And I ’ll forgive your Highland chief — 

My daughter! O my daughter!” 

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore. 
Return or aid preventing: 

The waters wild went o’er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS 

There came a youth upon the earth, 

Some thousand years ago, 

Whose slender hands were nothing worth, 
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. 

169 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Upon an empty tortoise-shell 

He stretched some chords, and drew 

Music that made men’s bosoms swell 

Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. 

Then King Admetus, one who had 
Pure taste by right divine, 

Decreed his singing not too bad 
To hear between the cups of wine: 

And so, well pleased with being soothed 
Into a sweet half-sleep, 

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, 
And made him viceroy o’er his sheep. 

His words were simple words enough, 

And yet he used them so, 

That what in other mouths was rough 
In his seemed musical and low. 

Men called him but a shiftless youth, 

In whom no good they saw; 

And yet, unwittingly, in truth, 

They made his careless words their law. 

They knew not how he learned at all, 

For idly, hour by hour, 

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, 

Or mused upon a common flower. 

It seemed the loveliness of things 
Did teach him all their use, 

170 


LADY CLARE 


For in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, 

He found a healing power profuse. 

Men granted that his speech was wise, 

But, when a glance they caught 
Of his slim grace and woman’s eyes, 

They laughed, and called him good-for-nought. 

Yet after he was dead and gone, 

And e’en his memory dim, 

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, 

More full of love, because of him. 

And day by day more holy grew 
Each spot where he had trod, 

Till after-poets only knew 

Their first-born brother as a god. 

James Russell Lowell . 


LADY CLARE 

It was the time when lilies blow, 

And clouds are highest up in air, 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn; 

Lovers long-betrothed were they, 
They two will wed the morrow morn; 
God’s blessing on the day! 

171 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“ He does not love me for my birth, 

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 

And that is well,” said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, “Who was this that went from thee?” 

“ It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare, 

“ To-morrow he weds with me.” 

“O God be thanked!” said Alice the nurse, 
“That all comes round so just and fair; 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 

And you are not the Lady Clare.” 

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,” 
Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?” 

“As God ’s above,” said Alice the nurse, 

“I speak the truth: you are my child. 

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 

I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead.” 

“Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother,” she said, “if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due.” 

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, 

“But keep the secret for your life, 

172 


LADY CLARE 


And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s 
When you are man and wife.” 

“If I’m a beggar born,” she said, 

“I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 

And fling the diamond necklace by!” 

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, 
“But keep the secret all ye can.” 

She said, “Not so: but I will know 
If there be any faith in man.” 

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse, 
“The man will cleave unto his right.” 

“And he shall have it,” the lady replied, 
“Though I should die to-night.” 

“ Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee.” 

“O mother, mother, mother,” she said, 

“So strange it seems to me! 

“Yet here ’s a kiss for my mother dear, • 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go.” 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare; 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

173 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
Leapt up from where she lay, 

Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, 

And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower; 

“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! 
Why come you drest like a village maid, 

That are the flower of the earth?” 

“If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are: 

I am a beggar born,” she said, 

“And not the Lady Clare.” 

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, 

“For I am yours in word and in deed; 
“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, 

“Your riddle is hard to read.” 

Oh, and proudly stood she up! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 

She looked into Lord Ronald’s eyes, 

And told him all her nurse’s tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn; 

He turned, and kissed her where she stood; 
“If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “the next in blood, — 

“If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “the lawful heir, 

174 


HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 

And you shall still be Lady Clare.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 


HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gw>ped all three; 
“Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate-bolts un- 
drew, 

“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other: we kept the great pace 
Neck and neck, stride by stride, never changing our 
place. 

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 

Then shortened each stirrup and set pique right, 
Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit; 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

’T was moonset at starting, but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see, 

At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half 
chime ; 

So Joris broke silence with “Yet there is time.” 

175 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 

And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, 

With resolute shoulders each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 
back 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye’s black* intelligence, — ever that glance 
O’er its white edge at me, its own master, askance! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault ’s not in her, 
We’ll remember at Aix;” — for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 
knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!” 

176 





A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

“How they’ll greet us!” — and all in a moment his 
roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone. 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. 

And with circles of red for his eye-socket’s rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 

Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad or 
good. 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round, 

As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground, 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent), 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 


A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river ? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

177 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat. 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 

From the deep cool bed of the river: 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 

Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flow’d the river; 

And hack’d and hew’d as a great god can, 

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

(How tall it stood in the river!) 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 
Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notch’d the poor dry empty thing 
In holes, as he sat by the river. 

“This is the way,” laugh’d the great god Pan 
(Laugh’d while he sat by the river), 

“The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed.” 
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 

178 


THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 


Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! 

Piercing sweet by the river! 

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies reviv’d, and the dragon-fly 
Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man 
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 
For the reed which grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away; 

Down and away below! 

Now my brothers call from the bay. 

Now the great winds shoreward blow, 

Now the salt tides seaward flow; 

Now the wild white horses play, 

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away! 

This way, this way! 

Call her once before you go — 

Call once yet! 

In a voice that she will know 
“ Margaret ! Margaret ! ” 

179 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Children’s voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear; 

Children’s voices, wild with pain — 

Surely she will come again! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this way! 

“Mother dear, we cannot stay! 

The wild white horses foam and fret.” 
Margaret! Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down; 

Call no more! 

One last look at the white-wall’d town, 

And the little gray church on the windy shore; 
Then come down! 

She will not come though you call all day; 
Come away, come away! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Through the surf and through the swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 

Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream. 
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 

180 


THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 


Where great whales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 

Round the world for ever and aye ? 

When did music come this way ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
(Call yet once) that she went away ? 

Once she sate with you and me. 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well, 
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 

She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green 
sea; 

She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 

’Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me! 

And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.” 
I said: “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! ” 
She smil’d, she went up through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone ? 

“The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; 

Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say; 

Come ! ” I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town; 
Through the narrow pav’d streets, where all was still, 
181 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


To the little gray church on the windy hill. 

From the church came a murmur of folk at their 
prayers, 

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 

We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with 
rains, 

And we gaz’d up the aisle through the small leaded 
panes. 

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear; 

“Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! 

Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone; 

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” 

But, ah, she gave me never a look, 

For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book! 

Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door. 

Come away, children, call no more! 

Come away, come down, call no more! 

Down, down, down! 

Down to the depths of the sea! 

She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 

Singing most joyfully. 

Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, 

For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; 

For the wheel where I spun, 

And the blessed light of the sun!” 

And so sings her fill, 

Singing most joyfully, 

Till the spindle drops from her hand, 

And the whizzing wheel stands still. 

182 


THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 


She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 
And over the sand at the sea; 

And her eyes are set in a stare; 

And anon there breaks a sigh, 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh; 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away, children; 

Come, children, come down! 

The hoarse wind blows colder; 

Lights shine in the town. 

She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 

She will hear the winds howling. 

Will hear the waves roar. 

We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing: “Here came a mortal. 

But faithless was she! 

And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea.” 

But, children, at midnight. 

When soft the winds blow, 

When clear falls the moonlight, 

183 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


When spring-tides are low; 

When sweet airs come seaward 
From heaths starr’d with broom, 

And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanch’d sands a gloom; 

Up the still, glistening beaches. 

Up the creeks we will hie, 

Over banks of bright seaweed 
The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 

At the white, sleeping town; 

At the church on the hillside — 

And then come back down. 

Singing: “There dwells a lov’d one, 

But cruel is she! 

She left lonely forever 
The kings of the sea.” 

Matthew Arnold. 

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST 

Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 

First lets his fingers wander as they list, 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme. 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 
Along the wavering vista of his dream. 

184 


THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


Not only around our infancy 

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 

Daily, with souls that cringe and plot. 

We Sinais climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies; 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 
Waits with its benedicite; 

And to our age’s drowsy blood 
Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives 
We bargain for the graves we lie in; 

At the Devil’s booth are all things sold, 

Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking; 

’Tis heaven alone that is given away, 

’Tis only God may be had for the asking; 

No price is set on the lavish summer; 

June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 

185 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 

Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 

The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 

The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 

And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
To be some happy creature’s palace; 

The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 

And lets his illumined being o’errun 
With the deluge of summer it receives; 

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wills it; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

’Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
186 


THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


That skies are clear and grass is growing; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 

For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing. — 
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, 

Warmed with the new wine of the year. 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving; 

’T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

’T is the natural way of living: 

Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrows and ache; 

The soul partakes of the season’s youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep ’neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow? 


187 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


PART FIRST 

I 

“My golden spurs now bring to me, 

And bring to me my richest mail, 

For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
In search of the Holy Grail; 

Shall never a bed for me be spread. 

Nor shall a pillow be under my head. 

Till I begin my vow to keep; 

Here on the rushes will I sleep, 

And perchance there may come a vision true 
Ere day create the world anew.” 

Slowly Sir Launfal’s eyes grew dim, 

Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 

And into his soul the vision flew. 

ii 

The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 

In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees. 
The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the year, 

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray: 

’T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be. 

Save to lord or lady of high degree; 

Summer besieged it on every side. 

But the churlish stone her assaults defied; 

188 





Jk 


INTO HIS SOUL THE VISION FLEW 


9Ke>: 


:®s* 






THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


She could not scale the chilly wall, 

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tali 
Stretched left and right, 

Over the hills and out of sight; 

Green and broad was every tent, 

And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 

in 

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang. 

And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 

In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 

Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 

Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 

IV 

It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 

And morning in the young knight’s heart; 

Only the castle moodily 

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 

And gloomed by itself apart; 

The season brimmed all other things up 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant’s cup. 


189 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


v 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, 
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 

The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. 

The flesh ’neath his armor ’gan shrink and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 
Like a frozen waterfall; 

For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 

Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 

And seemed the one blot on the summer morn — 

So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 

VI 

The leper raised not the gold from the dust 
“Better to me the poor man’s crust, 

Better the blessing of the poor, 

Though I turn me empty from his door; 

That is no true alms which the hand can hold; 

He gives nothing but worthless gold 
Who gives from a sense of duty; 

But he who gives but a slender mite, 

And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
W T hich runs through all and doth all unite, — 

The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 

The heart outstretches its eager palms, 

For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before.” 

190 


THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


PRELUDE TO PART SECOND 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak. 
From the snow five thousand summers old; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer’s cheek; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 
’Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars’ frosty gleams 
He groined his arches and matched his beams; 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
As the lashes of light that trim the stars; 

He sculptured every summer delight 
In his halls and chambers out of sight; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
Bending to counterfeit a breeze; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
But silvery mosses that downward grew; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond-drops, 

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one: 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


No mortal builder’s most rare device 
Could match this winter-palace of ice; 

’T was as if every image that mirrored lay 
In his depths serene through the summer day, 
Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 

Lest the happy model should be lost. 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
By the elfin builders of the frost. 

Within the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly. 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
With lightsome green of ivy and holly; 
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log’s roaring tide; 

The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
And belly and tug as a flag in the wind; 

Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind; 

And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
Now^pausing, now scattering away as in fear. 
Go threading the soot-forest’s tangled darks 
Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and sharp, 

Of Sir Launfal’s gray hair it makes a harp, 

And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 

Singing, in dreary monotone, 

A Christmas carol of its own, 

Whose burden still, as he might guess. 

Was — “Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!” 

192 


THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 

Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 

PART SECOND 

I 

There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 

The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; 

The river was dumb and could not speak, 

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; 

A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 

As if her veins were sapless and old, 

And she rose up decrepitly 

For a last dim look at earth and sea. 

ii 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 

For another heir in his earldom sate; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; 

Little he recked of his earldom’s loss, 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 
But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

193 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


hi 

Sir Launfal’s raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail ’gainst the barbed air. 

For it was just at the Christmas time; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
In the light and warmth of long ago; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
O’er the edge of the desert, black and small. 
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one. 

He can count the camels in the sun, 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. 
And with its own self like an infant played, 

And waved its signal of palms. 

IV 

“For Christ’s sweet sake, I beg an alms;” — 

The happy camels may reach the spring. 

But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 

That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 

v 

And Sir Launfal said, “I behold in thee 
An image of Him who died on the tree; 

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns — 

194 


THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 


Thou also hast had the world’s buffets and scorns, — 

And to thy life were not denied 

The wounds in the hands and feet and side: 

Mild Mary’s Son, acknowledge me; 

Behold, through him, I give to Thee!” 

VI 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
He had flung an alms to leprosie, 

When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 

The heart within him was ashes and dust; 

He parted in twain his single crust, 

He broke the ice on the streamlet’s brink. 

And gave the leper to eat and drink: 

’T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

’T was water out of a wooden bowl, — 

Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. 

And ’t was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 

VII 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side, 

But stood before him glorified, 

But shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 
Himself the Gate whereby men can 
Enter the temple of God in Man. 

-■ 195 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


VIII 

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. 
That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; 

And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

“Lo it is I, be not afraid! 

In many climes, without avail, 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; 

Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now; 

This crust is My body broken for thee, 

This water His blood that died on the tree; 

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. 

In whatso we share with another’s need: 

Not what we give, but what we share, — 

For the gift without the giver is bare; 

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me.” 

IX 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound: 

“The Grail in my castle here is found! 

Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 

Let it be the spider’s banquet-hall; 

He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail. 

x 

The castle gate stands open now, 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
196 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough; 

No longer scowl the turrets tall. 

The Summer’s long siege at last is o’er; 

When the first poor outcast went in at the door. 
She entered with him in disguise, 

And mastered the fortress by surprise; 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground. 

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal’s land 
Has hall and bower at his command; 

And there’s no poor man in the North Countree 
But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 

James Russell Lowell. 

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

PART I 

It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

“By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. 

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ? 

“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide. 

And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 

May’st hear the merry din!” 

He holds him with his skinny hand; 

“There was a ship,” quoth he. 

“Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!” 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

197 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


He holds him with his glittering eye: — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 

And listens like a three years’ child: 

The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding- Guest sat on a stone: 

He cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed Mariner: — 

“The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared; 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the light-house top. 

“The sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

“Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon ” — 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 

Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

198 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

The bright-eyed Mariner: — 

“And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong: 

He struck with his o’ertaking wings. 

And chased us south along. 

“With sloping masts and dipping prow, 

As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head. 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward aye we fled. 

“And now there came both mist and snow. 

And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 

“And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken, — 

The ice was all between. 

“The ice was here, the ice was there. 

The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
Like noises in a swound! 

“At length did cross an Albatross, 

Thorough the fog it came; 

199 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


As if it had been a Christian soul. 

We hailed it in God’s name. 

“It ate the food it ne’er had ate, 

And round and round it flew: — 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 

The helmsman steered us through! 

“And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

“In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moonshine.” 

“God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends that plague thee thus! 

Why look’st thou so?” “With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 

PART II 

“The sun now rose upon the right: 

Out of the sea came he 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

“And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 

200 



So* 


IT ATE THE FOOD IT NE’ER HAD ATE 
AND ROUND AND ROUND IT FLEW : — 

THE ICE DID SPLIT WITH A THUNDER-FIT 
THE HELMSMAN STEERED US THROUGH; 

AND A GOOD SOUTH WIND SPRUNG UP BEHIND, 


THE ALBATROSS DID FOLLOW, 

AND EVERY DAY, FOR FOOD OR PLAY 
CAME TO THE MARINERS’ HOLLO!” 


iQi.lt' 


a 

k 










RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

“And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work ’em woe: 

For all averred I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah, wretch! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow! 

“Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head. 

The glorious sun uprist: 

Then all averred I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist : — 

’T was right, said they, such birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist. 

“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
The furrow followed free; 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

“Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
’T was sad as sad could be; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea! 

“All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the moon. 

201 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“Day after day, day after day 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

“Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

“The very deep did rot: O Christ! 

That ever this should be! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

“About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch’s oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

“And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

“And every tongue, through utter drouth. 
Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

“Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 

202 


ftlME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

Instead of the Cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

PART III 

“There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 

How glazed each weary eye! 

When, looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

“At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist; 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist! 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

“With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drouth all dumb we stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 

“With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

203 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
Hither to work us weal, 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

“The western wave was all aflame. 

The day was well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad, bright sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 

“And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

“Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears! 

Are those her sails that glance in the sun. 
Like restless gossameres ? 

“Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 

And is that Woman all her crew ? 

Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 

Is Death that Woman’s mate ? 

“Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold, 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

204 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 

“The naked hulk alongside came. 

And the twain were casting dice; 

‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’ 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

“The sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea. 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

“We listened and looked sideways up! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night ; 

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white; 
From the sails the dew did drip, 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

“One after one, by the star-dogg’d moon. 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

“Four times fifty living men 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 

They dropt down one by one. 

205 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed me by 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow.” 

PART IV 

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

“I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand so brown.” 

“Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
This body dropt not down. 

“Alone, alone; all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

“The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand, thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

“I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck. 

And there the dead men lay. 

206 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


“I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

“I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 

“The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

“An orphan’s curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 

But, oh! more horrible than that 
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

“The moving moon went up the sky. 

And nowhere did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside: 

“Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 

207 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

“ Beyond the shadow of the ship 
I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

“Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
They coiled and swam; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

“O happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 

“The selfsame moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

part v 

“ Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
208 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
That slid into my soul. 

“The silly buckets on the deck 
That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 
And when I awoke it rained. 

“ My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

“I moved and could not feel my limbs; 

I was so light; almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep 
And was a blessed ghost. 

“And soon I heard a roaring wind; 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 

That were so thin and sere. 

“The upper air burst into life! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 

To and fro, they were hurried about! 

And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 

“ And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge: 

209 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And the rain poured down from one black 
cloud ; 

The moon was at its edge. 

“The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

“ The loud wind never reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved on ! 

Beneath the lightning and the moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 

“ They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, e’en in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 

“The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 
Yet never a breeze up-blew; 

The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 
Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools, — 
We were a ghastly crew! 

“The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 

But he said nought to me.” 

210 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


“ I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ” 

“Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 

’T was not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blest; 

“ For when it dawned they dropped their arms, 
And clustered round the mast; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 

“Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the sun: 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

“Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the skylark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

“ And now ’t was like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute; 

And now it is an angel’s song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

“It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

211 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

“Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe: 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

“ Under the keel nine fathom deep, 

From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 

And the ship stood still also. 

“The sun, right up above the mast* 

Had fixed her to the ocean; 

But in a minute she ’gan stir, 

With a short, uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short, uneasy motion. 

“ Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound; 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

“ How long in that same fit P lay, 

I have not to declare; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

212 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


“ ‘ Is it he ? * quoth one, ‘ is this the man ? 
By Him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

“The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.’ 

“The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do.’ 

PART vi 
First Voice 

“ ‘ But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing, 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing?’ 

Second Voice 

“‘Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast! 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

“ ‘ If he may know which way to go : 

For she guides him smooth or grim : 

213 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him!’ 

First Voice 

“ ‘ But why drives on that ship so fast, 

Without or wave or wind ? ’ 

Second Voice 
“‘The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 

“ ‘ Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 

Or we shall be belated; 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ 

“ I woke, and we were sailing on 
As in a gentle weather: 

’T was night, calm night, the moon was high 
The dead men stood together. 

“ All stood together on the deck, 

For a charnel dungeon fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 

That in the moon did glitter. 

“The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

“ And now this spell was snapt : once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 

214 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen, — 

“ Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And, having once turned round, walks on, 
And turns no more his head. 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

“ But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 

“ It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring: 

It mingled strangely with my fears, — 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

“Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly, too; 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 

“ Oh, dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this mine own countree? 

“ We drifted o’er the harbor-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray, — 

215 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


‘Oh, let me be awake, my God! 

Or let me sleep alway.’ 

“The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn : 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the moon. 

“The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weather-cock. 

“ And the bay was white with silent light : 
Till, rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were. 

In crimson colors came. 

“A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

O Christ! what saw I there! 

“Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 

And, by the holy rood! 

A man all light, a seraph-man. 

On every corse there stood. 

“This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light. 

216 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


“This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart, — 

No voice; but oh, the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

“But soon I heard the dash of oars; 

I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away. 

And I saw a boat appear. 

“The Pilot, and the Pilot’s boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

“ I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood. 

PART VII 

“This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea: 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 

He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

“ He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve, — 
He hath a cushion plump: 

217 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak stump. 

“The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk: 
‘Why, this is strange, I trow! 

Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ? ’ 

‘“Strange, by my faith,’ the Hermit said — 
‘And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks look warped! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

“‘Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolf’s young.’ 

‘“Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look,’ 

The Pilot made reply; 

‘I am a-feared.’ ‘Push on, push on!’ 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

“The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard : — 

218 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 


“ Under the water it rumbled on. 

Still louder and more dread: 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 

The ship went down like lead! 

“Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 
Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned, 
My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot’s boat. 

“Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 

The boat spun round and round; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

“I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked. 

And fell down in a fit: 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 

And prayed where he did sit. 

“I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
His eyes went to and fro. 

‘ Ha ! ha ! ’ quoth he, ‘ full plain I see 
The Devil knows how to row.’ 

“ And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land! 

219 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

“ ‘ O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! * 

The Hermit crossed his brow: 

‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say, 

What manner of man art thou ? * 

“ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woeful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 

“Since then, at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns: 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

“I pass, like night, from land to land; 

I have strange power of speech; 

The moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 

“ Whai loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding guests are there; 

But in the garden bower the bride 
And bridemaids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell, 

Which biddeth me to prayer! 


220 


RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

“O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 

So lonely ’t was, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

“ Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

’T is sweeter far to me 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company! 

“To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
And youths and maidens gay! 

“Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man, and bird, and beast. 

“He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.” 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. 


221 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


He went like one that hath been stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn: 

A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 

All you that love mirth for to hear, 

And I will tell you of a bold outlaw 
That lived in Nottinghamshire. 

As Robin Hood in the forest stood. 

All under the greenwood tree, 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 

As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clothed in scarlet red. 

In scarlet fine and gay; 

And he did frisk it over the plain, 

And chanted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 
Amongst the leaves so gay. 

There did he espy the same young man, 

Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 
It was clean cast away; 

222 


ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE 

And at every step he fetched a sigh, 

“Alack and a well-a-day!” 

Then stepped forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller’s son, 

Which made the young man bend his bow, 

When as he saw them come. 

“Stand off, stand off!” the young man said, 

“What is your will with me?” 

“You must come before our master straight, 

Under yon greenwood tree.” 

And when he came bold Robin before, 

Robin asked him courteously, 

“ Oh, hast thou any money to spare 
For my merry men and me ? ” 

“ I have no money,” the young man said, 

“But five shillings and a ring; 

And that I have kept this seven long years, 

To have it at my wedding. 

“Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she soon from me was tane, 

And chosen to be an old knight’s delight, 

Whereby my poor heart is slain.” 

“What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood, 

“ Come tell me without any fail : ” 

“ By the faith of my body,” then said the young man, 
“My name it is Allin a Dale.” 

223 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“What wilt thou give me?” said Robin Hood, 

“ In ready gold or fee, 

To help thee to thy true love again, 

And deliver her unto thee ? ” 

“I have no money,” then quoth the young man, 

“No ready gold nor fee, 

But I will swear upon a book 
Thy true servant for to be.” 

“ How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come tell me without guile.” 

“ By the faith of my body,” then said the young man, 
“ It is but five little mile.” 

Then Robin he hasted over the plain. 

He did neither stint nor lin, 

Until he came unto the church, 

Where Allin should keep his wedding. 

“ What hast thou here ? ” the bishop then said, 

“ I prithee now tell unto me : ” 

“I am a bold harper,” quoth Robin Hood, 

“ And the best in the north country.” 

“ Oh welcome, oh welcome,” the bishop he said, 
“That music best pleaseth me;” 

“You shall have no music,” quoth Robin Hood, 

“Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.” 

With that came in a wealthy knight, 

Which was both grave and old, 

224 


ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE 

And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

“This is not a fit match,” quoth bold Robin Hood, 
“That you do seem to make here, 

For since we are come into the church, 

The bride shall choose her own dear.” 

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, 
And blew blasts two or three; 

When four-and-twenty bowmen bold 
Came leaping over the lea. 

And when they came into the churchyard, 
Marching all on a row, 

The very first man was Allin a Dale, 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

“This is thy true love,” Robin he said, 

“Young Allin as I hear say; 

And you shall be married at this same time, 
Before we depart away.” 

“That shall not be,” the bishop he said, 

“For thy word shall not stand; 

They shall be three times asked in the church, 

As the law is of our land.” 

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop’s coat, 

And put it upon Little John; 

“By the faith of my body,” then Robin said, 

“This cloth doth make thee a man.” 

225 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


When Little John went into the quire; 

The people began to laugh; 

He asked them seven times in the church, 

Lest three times should not be enough. 

“Who gives me this maid?” said Little John; 
Quoth Robin Hood, “That do I, 

And he that takes her from Allin a Dale, 

Full dearly he shall her buy.” 

And thus having end of this merry wedding, 
The bride looked like a queen; 

And so they returned to the merry greenwood, 
Amongst the leaves so green. 

Unknown. 


KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF 
CANTERBURY 

An ancient story I’ll tell you anon 

Of a notable prince that was called King John; 

And he ruled England with main and with might, 
For he did great wrong, and maintained little right. 

And I ’ll tell you a story, a story so merry, 
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; 

How for his house-keeping and high renown, 

They rode poste for him to fair London towne. 

An hundred men the king did heare say, 

The abbot kept in his house every day; 

226 


KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT 


And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, 

In velvet coates waited the abbot about. 

“ How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, 

Thou keepest a farre better house than mee; 

And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, 

I feare thou work’st treason against my crown.” 

“ My liege,” quo’ the abbot, “ I would it were knowne 
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; 

And I trust your grace will doe me no deere. 

For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.” 

“Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, 

And now for the same thou needest must dye; 

For except thou canst answer me questions three, 

Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. 

“ And first,” quo’ the king, “ when I ’m in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, 

Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, 

Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. 

“Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, 

How soone I may ride the whole world about; 

And at the third question thou must not shrink, 

But tell me here truly what I do think.” 

“O these are hard questions for my shallow witt. 

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: 

But if you will give me but three weeks space, 
lie do my endeavour to answer your grace.” 

227 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“Now three weeks space to thee will I give, 

And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; 

For if thou dost not answer my questions three, 

Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.” 

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word. 

And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; 

But never a doctor there was so wise, 

That could with his learning an answer devise. 

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, 

And he met his shepheard a-going to fold : 

“ How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home ; 
What newes do you bring us from good King John ? 

“Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give, 

That I have but three days more to live; 

For if I do not answer him questions three, 

My head will be smitten from my bodie. 

“The first is to tell him, there in that stead, 

With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, 

Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, 

To within one penny of what he is worth. 

“ The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, 

How soone he may ride this whole world about; 

And at the third question I must not shrinke, 

But tell him there truly what he does thinke.” 

“Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, 
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt ? 


KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT 


Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, 
And lie ride to London to answere your quarrel. 

“Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, 

I am like your lordship, as ever may be; 

And if you will but lend me your gowne, 

There is none shall know us at fair London towne.” 

“Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, 

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, 

With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, 

Fit to appear ’fore our fader the pope.” 

“Now welcome, sire abbot,” the king he did say, 
“’Tis well thou’rt come back to keepe thy day: 

For and if thou canst answer my questions three, 
Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 

“And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, 

Tell me to one penny what I am worth.” 

“ For thirty pence our Saviour was sold 
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: 

And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, 

For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he.” 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, 

“I did not think I had been worth so littel! 

— Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, 

How soone I may ride this whole world about.” 

229 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“ You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same 
Until the next morning he riseth againe; 

And then your grace need not make any doubt 
But in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.” 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, 

“ I did not think it could be gone so soone ! 

— Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, 
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.” 

“Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry; 
You thinke I’m the abbot of Canterbury; 

But I’m his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, 
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.” 

The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, 

“lie make thee lord abbot this day in his place!” 

“ Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, 

For alacke I can neither write ne reade.” 

“ Four nobles a week, then I will give thee, 

For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; 

And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, 

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.” 

Unknown. 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 

The king sits in Dunfermline toun, 

Drinking the blude-red wine: 

“ Oh, whare will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this new ship of mine ? ” 

230 


SIR PATRICK SPENS 


Oh, up and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king’s right knee, 

“ Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sailed the sea.” 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And sealed it with his hand, 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. 

“To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o’er the faem; 

The king’s daughter of Noroway, 

’T is thou maun bring her hame.” 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he; 

The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blinded his e’e. 

“Oh wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the king o’ me, 

To send us out, at this time of the year, 

To sail upon the sea P ” 

“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 
Our ship must sail the faem; 

The king’s daughter of Noroway, 

’T is we must fetch her hame.” 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, 
Wi’ a’ the speed they may; 

231 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


And they hae landed in Noroway 
Upon a Wedensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 
In Noroway but twae, 

When that the lords o’ Noroway 
Began aloud to say: 

“ Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s gowd, 

And a’ our queenis fee.” 

“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 

Fu’ loud I hear ye lie! 

“ For I hae brought as much white monie 
As gane my men and me, 

And I hae brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red gowd 
Out o’er the sea wi’ me. 

“ Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’ ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn.” 

“Now ever alake, my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm! 

“ I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; 

And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we’ll come to harm.” 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 
And gurly grew the sea. 

232 


SIR PATRICK SPENS 


The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap. 

It was sic a deadly storm; 

And the waves cam’ o’er the broken ship 
Till a’ her sides were torn. 

“ Oh, where will I get a gude sailor. 

To take my helm in hand, 

Till I get up to the tall top-mast, 

To see if I can spy land?” 

“ Oh here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 

Till ye get up to the tall top-mast: 

But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.” 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

“ Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith, 

Another o’ the twine, 

And wap them into our ship’s side, 

And letna the sea come in.” 

They fetched a web o’ the silken claith, 

Another o’ the twine. 

And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side, 
But still the sea came in. 

Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To wet their cork-heeled shoon! 

233 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


But lang ere a’ the play was played 
They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 
That floated on the faem, N 

And mony was the gude lord’s son 
That never mair came hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 

The maidens tore their hair; 

A’ for the sake of their true loves, 

For them they’ll see na mair. 

O forty miles off Aberdeen 
’T is fifty fathoms deep, 

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet. 

Unknown. 


WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLE 

The king called his best archers 
To the buttes with him to go. 

“ I will see these fellows shoot,” he said, 
In the north have wrought this wo.” 

The king’s bowmen busk them blyve, 
And the queen’s archers alsoe, 

So did these three wight yeomen 
With them they thought to go. 

234 


WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLE 

There twice or thrice they shoot about 
For to assay their hand, 

There was no shot these yeomen shot 
That any prick might them stand. 

Then spake William of Cloudesle, 

“ By him that for me died, 

I hold him never no good archer 
That shooteth at buttes so wide.” 

“ Whereat ? ” then said our king, 

“I pray thee tell me:” 

“At such a butte, sir,” he said, 

“ As men use in my countree.” 

William went into a field, 

And his two brethren with him, 

There they set up hazle rods, 

Twenty score paces between. 

“I hold him an archer,” said Cloudesle, 

“That yonder wande cleaveth in two.” 

“Here is none such,” said the king, 

“ Nor none that can so do.” 

“I shall assay, sir,” said Cloudesle, 

“ Or that I farther go.” 

Cloudesle with a bearing arrow 
Clave the wand in two. 

“Thou art the best archer,” then said the king, 
“Forsooth that ever I see;” — 

23 5 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“ And yet for your love/’ said William, 
“I will do more mastery. 

“I have a son is seven years old, 

He is to me full dear; 

I will him tie to a stake 
All shall see that be here. 

“And lay an apple upon his head, 

And go six score paces him fro, 

And I myself with a broad arrow 
Shall cleave the apple in two.” 

“ Now haste thee then,” said the king, 

“ By him that died on a tree ; 

But if thou do not as thou hast said, 
Hanged shalt thou be. 

“ And thou touch his head or gown, 

In sight that men may see, 

By all the saints that be in Heaven, 

I shall hang you all three ! ” 

“That I have promised,” said William, 

“ I will it never forsake ; ” 

And there even before the king, 

In the earth he drove a stake, 

And bound thereto his eldest son, 

And bade him stand still thereat, 
And turned the child’s head from him, 
Because he should not start. 


WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLE 

An apple upon his head he set, 

And then his bow he bent; 

Six score paces were out-met, 

And thither Cloudesle went. 

There he drew out a fair broad arrow, 

His bow was great and long, 

He set that arrow in his bow, 

That was both stiff and strong. 

He prayed the people that was there, 

That they would still stand, 

“ For he that shooteth for such a wager, 
Behoveth a steadfast hand.” 

Much people prayed for Cloudesle, 

That his life saved might be, 

And when he made him ready to shoot 
There was many a weeping eye. 

Thus Cloudesle cleft the apple in two, 

That many a man might see; 

“Over-gods forbode,” then said the king, 

“ That thou should shoot at me ! 

“ I give thee eighteen pence a day, 

And my bow shalt thou bear. 

And over all the north countree, 

I make thee chief rider.” 

U nknoum. 


237 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 

PART THE FIRST 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen, 

To sing a song I will beginner 
It is of a lord of faire Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne 

His father was a right good lord, 

His mother a lady of high degree; 

But they, alas! were dead him froe. 
And he lov’d keeping companie. 

To spend the day with merry cheer. 

To drink and re veil every night, 

To card and dice from eve to mom, 

It was, I ween, his heart’s delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar, 

To alway spend and never spare, 

I wott, an’ it were the king himself, 

Of gold and fee he mote be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent: 

And he maun sell his landes so broad, 
His house, and landes, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen stewarde, 

And John o’ the Scales was called he: 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


But John is become a gentel-man, 

And John has gott both gold and fee. 

Sayes “Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, 
Let nought disturb thy merry cheer: 

If thou wilt sell thy landes so broad. 

Good store of gold I ’ll give thee here.” 

“My gold is gone, my money is spent; 

My lande nowe take it unto thee: 

Give me the golde, good John o’ the Scales, 
And thine for aye my lande shall be.” 

Then John he did him to record draw, 

And John he cast him a gods-pennie; 

But for every pound that John agreed, 

The lande, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the borde, 

He was right glad his land to winne; 

“The gold is thine, the land is mine, 

And now I ’ll be the lord of Linne.” 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad, 

Both hill and holt, and moor and fen, 

All but a poor and lonesome lodge, 

That stood far off in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father hight. 

“My son, when I am gone,” said he, 

“ Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free. 

239 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“ But swear me now upon the rood, 

That lonesome lodge thou ’It never spend ; 
For when all the world doth frown on thee, 
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.” 

The heir of Linne is full of gold : 

“And come with me, my friends,” said he, 

“ Let ’s drink, and rant, and merry make, 
And he that spares, ne’er mote be thee.” 

They ranted, drank, and merry made, 

Till all his gold it waxed thin: 

And then his friends they slunk away; 

They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse, 
Never a penny left but three, 

And one was brass, another was lead, 

And another it was white money. 

“Now well-a-day,” said the heir of Linne, 
“Now well-a-day, and woe is me, 

For when I was the lord of Linne, 

I never wanted gold nor fee. 

“ But many a trusty friend have I, 

And why should I feel dole or care ? 

I’ll borrow of them all by turns, 

So need I not be never bare.” 

But one I wis, was not at home; 

Another had paid his gold away; 

240 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


Another called him thriftless loon, 

And bade him sharply wend his way. 

“Now well-a-day,” said the heir of Linne, 
“Now well-a-day, and woe is me; 

For when I had my landes so broad, 

On me they lived right merrily. 

“To beg my bread from door to door, 

I wis, it were a burning shame; 

To rob and steal it were a sin; 

To work, my limbs I cannot frame. 

“Now I’ll away to the lonesome lodge, 
For*there my father bade me wend : 

When all the world should frown on me 
I there should find a trusty friend.” 

PART THE SECOND 

Away then hied the heir of Linne, 

O’er hill and holt, and moor and fen, 

Until he came to the lonesome lodge, 

That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

He looked up, he looked down, 

In hope some comfort for to win; 

But bare and lothly were the walls; 

“Here’s sorry cheer,” quo’ the heir of Linne. 

The little window, dim and dark, 

Was hung with ivy, brere and yew; 

241 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


No shimmering sun here ever shone, 

No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, ne table he mote spy, 

No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, 
Nought save a rope with renning noose. 
That dangling hung up o’er his head. 

And over it in broad letters 
These words were written so plain to see: 
“Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all. 
And brought thyself to penurie ? 

“All this my boding mind misgave, 

I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Let it now shield thy foul disgrace, 

And all thy shame and sorrows end.” 

Sorely shent wi’ this rebuke 
Sorely shent was the heire of Linne: 

His heart I wis, was near to brast 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spake the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

“This is a trusty friend indeed, 

And is right welcome unto me.” 

Then round his neck the cord he drew. 
And sprang aloft with his bodie, 

When lo! the ceiling burst in twain, 

And to the ground came tumbling he. 

242 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


Astonyed lay the heir of Linne, 

He knew if he were live or dead: 

At length he looked, and sawe a bille, 

And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill, and lookt it on, 

Straight good comfort found he there: 

It told him of a hole in the wall, 

In which there stood three chests infere. 

Two were full of the beaten golde, 

The third was full of white money; 

And over them in broad letters 

These words were written so plain to see. 

“ Once more, my sonne, I set thee clere ; 
Amend thy life and follies past; 

For but thou amend thee of thy life, 

That rope must be thy end at last.” 

“And let it be,” said the heire of Linne, 
“And let it be, but if I amend: 

For here I will make mine avow. 

This reade shall guide me to the end.” 

Away then went with a merry cheare, 
Away then went the heire of Linne; 

I wis, he neither ceased ne blanne, 

Till John o’ the Scales house he did winne. 

And when he came to John o’ the Scales, 
Up at the speere then looked he: 

243 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


There sate three lords upon a rowe, 

Were drinking of the wine so free. 

And John himself sate at the bord-head, 

Because now lord of Linne was he; 

“I pray thee,” he said, “good John o’ the Scales, 
One forty pence for to lend me.” 

“Away, away, thou thriftless loone; 

Away, away, this may not be: 

For Christ’s curse on my head,” he said, 

“If ever I trust thee one pennie.” 

Then bespake the heir of Linne, 

To John o’ the Scales’ wife then spake he: 
“Madame, some almes on me bestowe, 

I pray for sweet saint Charitie.” 

“Away, away, thou thriftless loone, 

I sweare thou gettest no almes of me; 

For if we should hang any losel here, 

The first we wold begin with thee.” 

Then bespake a good fellowe, 

Which sat at John o’ the Scales his bord; 

Said, “Turn again, thou heir of Linne; 

Some time thou wast a well good lord. 

“ Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 

And sparedst not thy gold and fee; 

Therefore I’ll lend thee forty pence, 

And other forty if need be. 

244 


THE HEIR OF LINNE 


“ And ever I pray thee, John o’ the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy companie: 

For well I wot thou hadst his land, 

And a good bargain it was to thee.” 

Up then spake him John o’ the Scales, 

All wood he answered him againe: 

“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said, 
“But I did lose by that bargaine. 

And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 

Before these lords so faire and free, 

Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape 
By a hundred markes than I had it of thee.” 

“I draw you to record, lords,” he said, 

With that he cast him a gods-pennie: 

“Now by my fay,” said the heire of Linne, 
“And here, good John, is thy money.” 

And he pulled forth three bagges of gold, 
And laid them down upon the bord; 

All woe begone was John o’ the Scales, 

So shent he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold. 

He told it forth with mickle dinne. 

“The gold is thine, the land is mine, 

And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.” 

Says, “ Have thou here, thou good fellowe, 
Forty pence thou didst lend me: 

245 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Now I am again the lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee. 

“ lie make thee keeper of my forrest. 

Both of the wild deere and the tame; 

For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 

I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.’ * 

“Now welladay!” sayth Joan o’ the Scales; 
“Now welladay, and woe is my life! 

Yesterday I was lady of Linne, 

Now Ime but John o’ the Scales his wife.” 

“ Now fare thee well ” said the heire of Linne, 
“Farewell now, John o’ the Scales,” said he: 
“Christ’s curse light on me, if ever again 
I bring my lands in jeopardy.” 

Unknown . 


THE EARL O’ QUARTERDECK 

A NEW OLD BALLAD 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew; 

And it was “ Hey for hame ! 

And ho for hame!” But the skipper cried, 

“ Haud her oot o’er the saut sea faem.” 

Then up and spoke the king himseP: 

“ Haud on for Dumferline ! ” 

246 


THE EARL O’ QUARTERDECK 

Quo the skipper, “ Ye ’re king upo’ the land — 

I’m king upo’ the brine.” 

And he took the helm intil his hand, 

And he steered the ship sae free; 

Wi’ the wind astarn, he crowded sail, 

And stood right out to sea. 

Quo the king, “There’s treason in this, I vow; 

This is something underhand! 

’Bout ship!” Quo the skipper, “ Yer grace forgets 
Ye are king but o’ the land!” 

And still he held to the open sea; 

And the east wind sank behind; 

And the west had a bitter word to say, 

Wi’ a white-sea roarin’ wind. 

And he turned her head into the north. 

Said the king : “ Gar fling him o’er.” 

Quo the fearless skipper: “It’s a’ ye’re worth! 
Ye’ll ne’er see Scotland more.” 

The king crept down the cabin-stair, 

To drink the gude French wine. 

And up she came, his daughter fair, 

And luikit ower the brine. 

She turned her face to the drivin’ hail, 

To the hail but and the weet; 

Her snood it brak, and, as lang’s herseP, 

Her hair drave out i’ the sleet. 

247 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


She turned her face frae the drivin’ win' — 

“ What ’s that ahead ? ” quo she. 

The skipper he threw himsel’ frae the win\ 

And he drove the helm a-lee. 

“Put to yer hand, my lady fair! 

Put to yer hand,” quoth he; 

“ Gin she dinna face the win* the mair, 

It’s the waur for you and me.” 

For the skipper kenned that strength is strength. 
Whether woman’s or man’s at last. 

To the tiller the lady she laid her han’. 

And the ship laid her cheek to the blast. 

For that slender body was full o’ soul, 

And the will is mair than shape; 

As the skipper saw when they cleared the berg. 
And he heard her quarter scrape. 

Quo the skipper: “Ye are a lady fair, 

And a princess grand to see; 

But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail 
To hell in yer company.” 

She liftit a pale and a queenly face; 

Her een flashed, and syne they swam. 

“ And what for no to heaven ? ” she says, 

And she turned awa’ frae him. 

But she took na her han’ frae the good ship’s helm, 
Until the day did daw; 

248 


THE EARL O’ QUARTERDECK 

And the skipper he spak, but what he said 
It was said atween them twa. 

And then the good ship, she lay to, 

With the land far on the lee; 

And up came the king upo’ the deck, 

Wi’ wan face and bluidshot ee. 

The skipper he louted to the king: 

“Gae wa’, gae waV’ said the king. 

Said the king, like a prince, “I was a’ wrang, 

Put on this ruby ring.” 

And the wind blew lowne, and the stars cam oot, 
And the ship turned to the shore; 

And, afore the sun was up again, 

They saw Scotland ance more. 

That day the ship hung at the pier-heid, 

And the king he stept on the land. 

“Skipper, kneel down,” the king he said, 

“ Hoo daur ye afore me stand P ” 

The skipper he louted on his knee, 

The king his blade he drew: 

Said the king, “ How daured ye contre me ? 

I’m aboard my ain ship noo. 

“ I canna mak ye a king,” said he, 

“For the Lord alone can do that; 

And besides ye took it intil yer ain han’. 

And crooned yersel’ sae pat! 

249 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“But wi’ what ye will I redeem my ring; 

For ance I am at your beck. 

And first, as ye loutit Skipper o’ Doon, 

Rise up Yerl o’ Quarterdeck.” 

The skipper he rose and looked at the king 
In his een for all his croon; 

Said the skipper, “ Here is yer grace’s ring, 
And yer daughter is my boon.” 

The reid blude sprang into the king’s face, — 
A wrathful man to see: 

“The rascal loon abuses our grace; 

Gae hang him upon yon tree.” 

But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship, 
And he drew his biting blade; 

And he struck the chain that held her fast, 
But the iron was ower weel made. 

And the king he blew a whistle loud; 

And tramp, tramp, down the pier, 

Cam’ twenty riders on twenty steeds. 

Clankin’ wi’ spur and spear. 

“He saved your life!” cried the lady fair; 

“ His life ye daurna spill ! ” 

“ Will ye come atween me and my hate ? ” 

Quo the lady, “And that I will!” 

And on cam the knights wi’ spur and spear, 
For they heard the iron ring. 

250 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 

“ Gin ye care na for yer father’s grace, 

Mind ye that I am the king.” 

“ I kneel to my father for his grace, 

Right lowly on my knee; 

But I stand and look the king in the face, 

For the skipper is king o’ me.” 

She turned and she sprang upo’ the deck, 

And the cable splashed in the sea. 

The good ship spread her wings sae white, 

And away with the skipper goes she. 

Now was not this a king’s daughter, 

And a brave lady beside ? 

And a woman with whom a man might sail 
Into the heaven wi’ pride ? 

George Macdonald . 

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 

i 

The Percy out of Northumberland 
And a vow to God made he. 

That he would hunt in the mountains 
Of Cheviot within days three, 

In the maugre of doughty Douglas 
And all that ever with him be. 

The fattest harts in all Cheviot 

He said he would kill and carry them away; 

251 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


“ By my faith,” said the doughty Douglas again, 

“I will let that hunting if I may.” 

Then the Percy out of Bamborough came. 

With him a mighty meany, 

With fifteen hundred archers bold of blood and bone, 
They were chosen out of shires three. 

This began on a Monday at morn 
In Cheviot the hills so high; 

The child may rue that is unborn, 

It was the more pity. 

The drivers through the woodes went, 

For to raise the deer; 

Bowmen bickered upon the bent 
With their broad arrows clear. 

Then the wild thorough the woodes went, 

On every side sheer, 

Greyhounds thorough the greves glent 
For to kill their deer. 

They began in Cheviot the hills above, 

Early on Monanday; 

By that it drew to the hour of noon, 

A hundred fat harts dead there lay. 

They blew a mort upon the bent, 

They ’sembled on sides sheer; 

To the quarry then the Percy went 
To the brittling of the deer. 

252 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 


He said: “It was the Douglas’s promise 
This day to meet me here. 

But I wist he would fail, verament,” — 

A great oath the Percy sware. 

At the last a squire of Northumberland 
Looked at his hand full nigh; 

He was ware of the doughty Douglas coming, 
With him a mighty meany. 

Both with spear, bill, and brand : 

It was a mighty sight to see; 

Hardier men, both of heart nor hand, 

Were not in Christianity. 

They were twenty hundred spearmen good, 
Withouten any fail; 

They were born along by the water of Tweed, 
I’ the bounds of Tivydale. 

“Leave off the brittling the deer,” he said, 

“To your bows look ye take good heed; 

For never since ye were on your mothers born 
Had ye never so mickle need.” 

The doughty Douglas on a steed 
He rode at his men beforne; 

His armor glittered as a glede ; 

A bolder bairn was never born. 

“Tell me who ye are,” he says, 

“ Or whose men that ye be. 

253 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Who gave you leave to hunt in this Cheviot Chase, 
In the spite of me ? ” 

The first man that ever him an answer made, 

It was the good Lord Percy; 

“We will not tell thee whose men we are,” he says, 
“Nor whose men that we be; 

But we will hunt here in this chase 
In the spite of thine and of thee. 

“The fattest harts in all Cheviot 

We have killed and cast to carry them away:” 

“ By my troth,” said the doughty Douglas again, 
“Therefore the one of us shall die this day.” 

Then said the doughty Douglas 
Unto the Lord Percy: 

“To kill all these guiltless men, 

Alas, it were great pity. 

“ But Percy, thou art a lord of land, 

I am an earl called within my country, 

Let all our men upon a party stand 
And do the battle of thee and of me.” 

“Now a curse on his crown,” said the Lord Percy, 
“Whoever thereto says nay; 

By my troth, doughty Douglas,” he says, 

“Thou shalt never see that day. 

“Neither in England, Scotland, nor France 
Nor for no man of a woman born, 

254 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 


But, an fortune be my chance, 

I dare meet him, one man for one.” 

Then bespake a squire of Northumberland, 
Richard Witherington was his name; 

“It shall never be told in South England,” he says, 
“ To King Henry the Fourth for shame. 

“ I wot ye bin great lordes two 
I am a poor squire of land; 

I will never see my captain fight on a field, 

And stand myself and look on, 

But while I may my weapon wield 
I will not fail both heart and hand.” 

That day, that day, that dreadful day! 

The first fytte here I find, 

And you will hear any more o’ the Hunting o’ the 
Cheviot, 

Yet is there more behind. 

ii 

The Englishmen had their bows ybent; 

Their hearts were good enow; 

The first of arrows that they shot off, 

Seven score spearmen they slew. 

Yet bides the Earl Douglas upon the bent, 

A captain good enow, 

And that was seen, verament 

For he wrought them both woo and woe. 

255 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


The Douglas parted his host in three, 

Like a chief chieftain of pride, 

With sure spears of mighty tree, 

They came in on every side; 

Through our English archery 
Gave many a wound full wide; 

Many a doughty they gar’d to die 
Which gained them no pride. 

The Englishmen let their bows be 

And pulled out brands that were bright; 

It was a heavy sight to see 

Bright swords on basnets light. 

Thorough rich mail and maniple 

Many stern they stroke down straight; 

Many a freke that was full free 
There under foot did light. 

At last the Douglas and the Percy met, 
Like to captains of might and of main; 

They swapt together till they both sweat, 
With swords that were of fine Milan. 

These worthy frekes for to fight, 

Thereto they were full fain, 

Till the blood out of their basnets sprent, 
As ever did hail or rain. 

"Hold thee, Percy,” said the Douglas, 

"And i’ faith I shall thee bring 
256 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 


Where thou shalt have an earl’s wages 
Of Jamie our Scottish king. 

“Thou shalt have thy ransom free, 

I hight thee here this thing, 

For the manfullest man yet art thou 
That ever I conquered in field-fighting.” 

“Nay,” said the Lord Percy, 

“I told it thee beforne 

That I would never yielded be 
To no man of a woman born.” 

With that there came an arrow hastily 
Forth of a mighty wane; 

It hath stricken the Earl Douglas 
In at the breast bane. 

Thorough liver and lungs baith 
The sharp arrow is gone, 

That never after in all his live days 
He spake no words but one. 

That was, “ Fight ye, my merry men, while ye may, 
For my life days be gone.” 

The Percy leaned on his brand 
And saw the Douglas die. 

He took the dead man by the hand 
And said, “Woe is me for thee! 

“To have saved thy life, I would have parted with 
My lands for years three, 

257 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


For a better man of heart nor of hand 
Was not in all the north country.” 

Of all that saw a Scottish knight 
Was called Sir Hugh Montgomery; 

He saw the Douglas to the death was dight, 
He spended a spear, a trusty tree: 

He rode upon a courser 
Thorough a hundred archery; 

He never stinted, nor never blane, 

Till he came to the good Lord Percy. 

He set upon the Lord Percy 
A dint that was full sore; 

With a sure spear of a mighty tree 

Clean through the body he the Percy bore, 

At t’ other side that a man might see 
A large cloth-yard and mair; 

Two better captains were not in Christianity, 
Than that day slain were there. 

An archer of Northumberland 
Saw slain was the Lord Percy; 

He bare a bend-bow in his hand 
Was made of trusty tree. 

An arrow that a cloth-yard was long 
To the hard steel haled he; 

A dint that was both sad and sore 
He set on Sir Hugh Montgomery. 

258 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 


The dint it was both sad and sore 
That he on Montgomery set; 

The swan feathers that his arrow bore 
With his heart blood they were wet. 

There was never a freke one foot would flee 
But still in stour did stand. 

Hewing on each other, while they might dree 
With many a baleful brand. 

This battle began in Cheviot 
An hour before the noon, 

And when even-song bell was rung 
The battle was not half done. 

They took on either hand 
By the light of the moon; 

Many had no strength for to stand 
In Cheviot the hills aboon. 

Of fifteen hundred archers of England 
Went away but fifty and three; 

Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland 
But even five and fiftie. 

But all were slain Cheviot within; 

They had no strength to stand on high; 

The child may rue that is unborn 
It was the more pitie. 

There was slain with the Lord Percy, 

Sir John of Agerstone, 

259 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


Sir Roger, the hynd Hartley, 

Sir William, the bold Heron. 

Sir George, the worthy Lovel, 

A knight of great renown. 

Sir Ralph, the rich Rugby 
With dints were beaten down. 

For Witherington my heart was woe 
That ever he slain should be; 

For when both his legs were hewn in two. 
Yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. 

There was slain with the doughty Douglas, 
Sir Hugh Montgomery; 

Sir Davy Liddall, that worthy was, 

His sister’s son was he. 

Sir Charles o’ Murray in that place 
That never a foot would flee; 

Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, 

With the Douglas did he dee. 

So on the morrow they made them biers 
Of birch and hazel so gray; 

Many widows with weeping tears 
Came to fetch their mates away. 

Tivydale may carp of care 

Northumberland may make great moan, 

For two such captains as slain were there, 
On the March-party shall never be none. 

260 


THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 


Word has come to Edinborough, 

To Jamie the Scottish king, 

That doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches 
He lay slain Cheviot within. 

His handes did he weal and wring; 

He said, “Alas! and wo is me! 

Such an other captain Scotland within,” 

He said, “i* faith should never be.” 

Word is come to lovely London 
To the fourth Harry our king, 

That Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches, 

He lay slain, Cheviot within. 

“God have mercy on his soul,” said King Harry, 
“Good Lord if thy will it be! 

I have a hundred captains in England,” he said, 
“As good as ever was he. 

But Percy, as I brook my life. 

Thy death well quit shall be.” 

As our noble king made his avow, 

Like a noble prince of renown, 

For the death of the Lord Percy 
He did the battle of Homildown; 

Where six and thirty Scottish knights 
On a day were beaten down; 

Glendale glittered on their armor bright, 

Over castle, tower, and town. 

261 


STORY-TELLING POEMS 


This was the Hunting of the Cheviot 
That tear began this spurn: 

Old men that know the ground weel enow 
Call it the battle of Otterbourn. 

At Otterbourn began this spurn 
Upon a Monanday; 

There was the doughty Douglas slain, 

The Percy never went away. 

There was never a time on the March parties 
Since the Douglas and Percy met. 

But it was marvel, and the red blood ran not 
As the rain does in the street. 

And now may Heaven amend us all 
And to the bliss us bring. 

Thus was the Hunting of the Cheviot. 

God send us all good ending. 


U nknown. 


NONSENSE VERSE 



THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT 


i 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea ' 

In a beautiful pea-green boat. 

They took some honey, and plenty of money, 
Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 

The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 

“O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, 

What a beautiful Pussy you are, 

You are, 

You are! 

What a beautiful Pussy you are!” 

ii 

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl, 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 

Oh! let us be married: too long we have tarried; 

But what shall we do for a ring?” 

They sailed away, for a year and a day. 

To the land where the bong-tree grows; 

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, 

With a ring at the end of his nose, 

His nose, 

His nose, 

With a ring at the end of his nose. 

265 


NONSENSE VERSE 


hi 

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling 
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” 

So they took it away, and were married next day 
By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 

They dined on mince and slices of quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand 
They danced by the light of the moon, 

The moon, 

The moon. 

They danced by the light of the moon. 

Edward Lear. 

MARKET DAY 

Please, sir, I wish a spool of beans 
And seven pints of silk; 

Then wrap me up a bag of pins, 

And half a square of milk. 

I’ll take an ell of sausages, 

And thirteen gross of cream, 

A can of freshly laundered eggs; 

Of doughnuts just a ream. 

Oh, let me have a sheet of soap. 

And eighty grains of tea, 

With twenty pecks of apple pie, 

As boneless as can be. 

266 


THE JUMBLIES 

I want a dozen honey, ripe, 

And half a foot of cheese. 

Then give me, sir, a yard of oil 
Wrapped up in paper, please. 

A box of sugar vinegar, 

A drachm of lettuce, too, 

And with a cask of butter-scotch 
I think that this will do. 

Please send my purchase quickly, sir, — 

I live upon the Hill, 

An acre and a ton away, — 

And charge it in the bill. 

Abbie Far well Brown. 


THE JUMBLIES 

i 

They went to sea in a sieve, they did; 

In a sieve they went to sea: 

In spite of all their friends could say, 

On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, 

In a sieve they went to sea. 
iVnd when the sieve turned round and round, 
And every one cried, “You’ll all be drowned!” 
They called aloud, “Our sieve ain’t big; 

But we don’t care a button, we don’t care a fig: 
In a sieve we’ll go to sea!” 

267 


NONSENSE VERSE 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue. 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

ii 

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, 

In a sieve they sailed so fast, 

With only a beautiful pea-green veil 
Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail. 

To a small tobacco-pipe mast. 

And every one said who saw them go, 

“Oh! won’t they be soon upset, you know? 

For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; 

And, happen what may, it’s extremely wrong 
In a sieve to sail so fast.” 

Far and few, far and few 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue ; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

hi 

The water it soon came in, it did: 

The water it soon came in; 

So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet 
In a pinky paper all folded neat; 

And they fastened it down with a pin. 

And they passed the night in a crockery jar; 

And each of them said, “How wise we are! 

Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long. 

Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, 

While round in our sieve we spin.” 

268 


THE JUMBLIES 


Far and few, far and few 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

IV 

And all night long they sailed away; 

And when the sun went down, 

They whistled and warbled a moony song 
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, 

In the shade of the mountains brown. 

“ O Timballoo ! How happy we are 
When we live in a sieve and a crockery jar! 

And all night long, in the moonlight pale, 

We sail away with a pea-green sail 

In the shade of the mountains brown.” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

v 

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, — 

To a land all covered with trees; 

And they bought an owl, and a useful cart, 

And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, 

And a hive of silvery bees; 

And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, 
And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, 

And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, 

And no end of Sti lf on cheese. 


NONSENSE VERSE 


Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

VI 

And in twenty years they all came back, — 

In twenty years or more; 

And every one said, “ How tall they Ve grown ! 

For they Ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, 
And the hills of the Chankly Bore.” 

And they drank their health, and gave them a feast 
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; 

And every one said, “ If we only live, 

We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, 

To the hills of the Chankly Bore.” 

Far and few, far and few. 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live: 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue ; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

Edward Lear. 


THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT 

i 

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 
The Quangle Wangle sat, 

But his face you could not see, 

On account of his Beaver Hat. 

270 


THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT 

For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, 
With ribbons and bibbons on every side, 

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, 

So that nobody ever could see the face 
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

ii 

The Quangle Wangle said 

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, 

“Jam, and jelly, and bread 

Are the best of food for me! 

But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree 
The plainer than ever it seems to me 
That very few people come this way 
And that life on the whole is far from gay!” 
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

hi 

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree 
Mr. and Mrs. Canary; 

And they said, “ Did ever you see 
Any spot so charmingly airy ? 

May we build a nest on your lovely Hat ? 

Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

Oh, please let us come and build a nest 
Of whatever material suits you best, 

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!” 

IV 

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree 

Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; 
271 


NONSENSE VERSE 


The Snail and the Bumble-Bee, 

The Frog and the Fimble Fowl 
(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg) ; 

And all of them said, “We humbly beg 
We may build our homes on your lovely Hat, — 
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!” 

v 

And the Golden Grouse came there. 

And the Pobble who has no toes, 

And the small Olympian bear, 

And the Dong with a luminous nose. 

And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, 

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, 

And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, — 

All came and built on the lovely Hat 

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

VI 

And the Quangle Wangle said 

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, 

“When all these creatures move 

What a wonderful noise there’ll be!” 

And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon 
They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, 

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, 
And all were as happy as happy could be, 

With the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

Edward Lear. 




THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO 


THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO 

A SONG FOR MY LITTLE FRIENDS 

A lively young turtle lived down by the banks 
Of a dark-rolling stream called the Jingo, 

And one summer day, as he went out to play, 

Fell in love with a charming flamingo, — 

An enormously genteel flamingo! 

An expansively crimson flamingo! 

A beautiful, bouncing flamingo! 

Spake the turtle in tones like a delicate wheeze : 

“To the water I’ve oft seen you in go, 

And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell, 
You perfectly modeled flamingo! 

You uncommonly brilliant flamingo! 

You tremendously scorching flamingo! 

You inexpres-si-ble flamingo! 

“ To be sure, I ’m a turtle and you are a belle, 

And my language is not your fine lingo; 

But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame, 
You miraculous, wondrous flamingo! 

You blazingly beauteous flamingo! 

You turtle-absorbing flamingo! 

You inflammably gorgeous flamingo !” 

Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before. 
And that was quite un-nec-ces-sa-ry, 

273 


NONSENSE VERSE 


And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye, 
The position of things for to vary, — 

This aquatical, musing flamingo! 

This dreamy, uncertain flamingo! 

This embarrassing, harassing flamingo! 

Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed, 

“ Why your passion toward me do you hurtle ? 

I’m an ornithological wonder of grace, 

And you ’re an illogical turtle, — 

A waddling, impossible turtle! 

A low-minded, grass-eating turtle! 

A highly improbable turtle! 

“ I measure four feet from my nose to my toes — 

Just observe the flamboyant spec -tacle! 

Do you think a flamingo like me would stoop down 
Her fortune with yours, sir, to shackle ? 

I can’t, you pre-pos-terous turtle! 

You aldermaniculous turtle! 

You damp and ridiculous turtle!” 

Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground, 
And never more looked at the lasses; 

And falling asleep, while indulging his grief, 

Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz, — 

The peripatetic Agassiz! 

The turtle-dissecting Agassiz! 

The illustrious, industrious Agassiz. 

Go with me to Cambridge some cool pleasant day, 
And the skeleton lover I ’ll show you ; 

274 


LITTLE BILLEE 


He’s in a hard case, but he’ll look in your face, 
Pretending (the rogue!) he don’t know you! 

Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle! 

The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle! 

The green , but a very mock turtle! 

James T. Fields. 

LITTLE BILLEE 

There were three sailors of Bristol city 
Who took a boat and went to sea. 

But first with beef and captain’s biscuits 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest he was little Billee. 

Now when they got as far as the Equator 
They’d nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

“ I am extremely hungaree.” 

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

“ We ’ve nothing left, us must eat we.” 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

“ With one another we should n’t agree ! 

There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, 
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he. 

“ Oh ! Billy, we ’re going to kill and eat you, 

So undo the button of your chemie.” 

275 


NONSENSE VERSE 


When Bill received this information. 

He used his pocket handkerchie. 

“ First let me say my catechism, 

Which my poor mammy taught to me.” 

“ Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 

So Billy went up to the main top-gallant mast, 
And down he fell on his bended knee. 

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment 
When up he jumps. “There’s land I see: 

“ Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and South Amerikee: 

There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, 

With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.” 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s, 

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; 

But as for little Bill he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy- three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 








SONGS 














WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 


Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 

Sailed on a river of misty light 
Into a sea of dew. 

“ Where are you going, and what do you wish ? ” 
The old moon asked the three. 

“ We have come to fish for the herring-fish 
That live in the beautiful sea; 

Nets of silver and gold have we,” 

Said Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sung a song, 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe; 

And the wind that sped them all night long 
Ruffled the waves of dew; 

The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in the beautiful sea. 

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 

But never afeared are we!” 

So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 
For the fish in the twinkling foam, 

279 


SONGS 


Then down the sky came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home; 

’T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
As if it could not be; 

And some folk thought ’t was a dream they dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea; 

But I shall name you the fishermen three ; 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes. 

And Nod is a little head. 

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed! 

So shut your eyes while Mother sings 
Of wonderful sights that be, 

And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock on the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Eugene Field . 


SEA SONG 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 

And fills the white and rustling sail, 
And bends the gallant mast, 

280 


HOME, SWEET HOME 

And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free, 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

There’s tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 

And hark, the music, mariners! 

The wind is wakening loud. 

The wind is wakening loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashes free; 

The hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 

HOME, SWEET HOME 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with else- 
where. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gayly that came at my call : — 

Oh, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all! 
Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home! 

John Howard Payne. 


281 


SONGS 


STAY, STAY AT HOME, MY HEART, 
AND REST 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; 
Home-keeping hearts are happiest, 

For those that wander they know not where 
Are full of trouble and full of care: 

To stay at home is best. 

Weary and homesick and distressed, 

They wander east, they wander west, 

And are baffled and beaten and blown about 
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt: 

To stay at home is best. 

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; 

The bird is safest in its nest; 

O’er all that flutter their wings and fly 
A hawk is hovering in the sky: 

To stay at home is best. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES” 

The year’s at the spring, 

And day’s at the morn; 

Morning’s at seven; 

The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; 

The lark’s on the wing; 

282 



I 


THE LARK ’S ON THE WING GOD ’S IN HIS HEAVEN 

THE SNAIL’S ON THE THORN ALL’S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD 


















THE CORN-SONG 


The snail ’s on the thorn : 

God ’s in His heaven — 

All’s right with the world. 

Robert Browning . 

THE CORN-SONG 

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! 

Heap high the golden corn! 

No richer gift has Autumn poured 
From out her lavish horn! 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 
The apple from the pine, 

The orange from its glossy green. 

The cluster from the vine; 

We better love the hardy gift 
Our rugged vales bestow, 

To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
Our harvest-fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers 
Our ploughs their furrows made, 

While on the hills the sun and showers 
Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain 
Beneath the sun of May, 

And frightened from our sprouting grain 
The robber crows away. 

283 


SONGS 


All through the long, bright days of June 
Its leaves grew green and fair, 

And waved in hot midsummer’s noon 
Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now, with Autumn’s moonlit eves, 
Its harvest-time has come, 

We pluck away the frosted leaves. 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, when the snows about us drift, 
And winter winds are cold, 

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk 
Around their costly board; 

Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 

By homespun beauty poured! 

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth 
Sends up its smoky curls, 

Who will not thank the kindly earth. 

And bless our farmer girls! 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
Whose folly laughs to scorn 

The blessing of our hardy grain, 

Our wealth of golden corn! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 

Let mildew blight the rye, 

284 


BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit, 

The wheat-field to the fly: 

But let the good old crop adorn 
The hills our fathers trod; 

Still let us, for His golden corn, 

Send up our thanks to God! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman’s boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


285 


SONGS 


SWEET AND LOW 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 

Over the rolling waters go, 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon: 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE BUGLE-SONG 

The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
286 


FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently. I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 

Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills! 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. 

287 


SONGS 


How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Robert Burns. 

THE SANDS OF DEE 

“O Mart, go and call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home. 

And call the cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee!” 

The western wind was wild and dank wi’ foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 

And o’er and o’er the sand, 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see. 

The rolling mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

288 


AULD LANG SYNE 


“ Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 

A tress o’ golden hair, 

A drowned maiden’s hair 
Above the nets at sea? 

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee.” 

They row’d her in across the rolling foam, 

The cruel crawling foam* 

The cruel hungry foam, 

To her grave beside the sea: 

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee! 

Charles Kingsley. 


AULD LANG SYNE 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min’ ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o’ lang syne ? 

CHORUS 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 
For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pu’d the go wans fine; 

289 


SONGS 


But we Ve wandered monie a weary foot, 

Sin* auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn, 

Frae morning sun till dine; 

But seas between us braid hae roared, 

Sin’ auld lang syne. 

And here ’s a hand, my trusty here, 

And gie ’s a hand o’ thine ; 

And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely you ’ll be your pint-stoup, 

And surely I ’ll be mine ; 

And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

Robert Burns. 


BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCK- 
BURN 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 

Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victory! 

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; 

See the front o’ battle lour; 

See approach proud Edward’s power — 

Chains and slavery! 

290 


JAPANESE LULLABY 


Wha will be a traitor knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee! 

Wha for Scotland’s king and law 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’, 

Let him follow me! 

By oppression’s woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins. 

But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 

Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty ’s in every blow! — 

Let us do or die! 

Robert Burns. 

JAPANESE LULLABY 

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, — 
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; 

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging — 
Swinging the nest where her little one lies. 

Away out yonder I see a star, — 

Silvery star with a tinkling song; 

To the soft dew falling I hear it calling — 
Calling and tinkling the night along. 

291 


SONGS 


In through the window a moonbeam comes, — 

Little gold moonbeams with misty wings; 

All silently creeping, it asks, “Is he sleeping — 
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?” 

Up from the sea there floats the sob 

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, 

As though they were groaning in anguish, and moan- 
ing— 

Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more. 

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, — 

Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; 

Am I not singing ? — see, I am swinging — 

Swinging the nest where my darling lies. 

Eugene Field. 

NEARER HOME 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o’er and o’er; 

I am nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before; 

Nearer my Father’s house, 

Where the many mansions be; 

Nearer the great white throne, 

Nearer the crystal sea; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down; 

292 


CANADIAN BOAT-SONG 


Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer gaining the crown ! 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 

Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm: 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 
Have almost gained the brink; 

If it be I am nearer home 
Even to-day than I think; 

Father, perfect my trust; 

Let my spirit feel in death 

That her feet are firmly set 
On the rock of a living faith! 

Phoebe Cary. 

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 

We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. 

Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, 

The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past. 

293 


SONGS 


Why should we yet our sails unfurl ? — 

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows off the shore, 

Oh, sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar! 

Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 

The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past. 

Utawa’s tide! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 

Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, — 
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs! 
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 

The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past. 

Thomas Moore. 

THOSE EVENING BELLS! 

Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells. 

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 

And many a heart, that then was gay, 

Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 

And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so ’t will be when I am gone; 

That tuneful peal will still ring on, 

While other bards shall walk these dells, 

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 

Thomas Moore. 


294 


SONG OF MARION’S MEN 


SONG OF MARION’S MEN 

Our band is few, but true and tried, 
Our leader frank and bold; 

The British soldier trembles 
When Marion’s name is told. 

Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree; 

We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 

Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery, 

That little dread us near! 

On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear; 

When, waking to their tents on fire. 
They grasp their arms in vain, 

And they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again. 

And they who fly in terror deem 
A mighty host behind, 

And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 
From danger and from toil; 

295 


SONGS 


We talk the battle over, 

We share the battle’s spoil. 

The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
As if a hunt were up, 

And woodland flowers are gathered 
To crown the soldier’s cup. 

With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves, 

And slumber long and sweetly 
On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads, 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 

’T is life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlit plain; 

’T is life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane, 

A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs, 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 

And lovely ladies greet our band 
With kindliest welcoming, 

With smiles like those of summer, 

296 


BOOT AND SADDLE 


And tears like those of spring. 

For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton 
Forever from our shore. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

BOOT AND SADDLE 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 

Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say; 
Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray, 

“ God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay — 
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!” 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads’ array: 
Who laughs, “Good fellows ere this, by my fay. 
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!” 

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay. 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay! 

I ’ve better counselors ; what counsel they ? 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!” 

Robert Browning. 


297 


SONGS 


SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! 

Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine! 

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances. 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 

Heaven send it happy dew. 

Earth lend it sap anew, 

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow. 

While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back again, 

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; 

When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the 
mountain, 

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 

Proof to the tempest’s shock, 

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow: 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then. 

Echo his praise again, 

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, 

And Bannachars’ groans to our slogan replied; 

Glen Luss and Ross dhu, they are smoking in ruin, 
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. 
298 


BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND ! 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 

Think of Clan -Alpine with fear and with woe; 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again, 

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! 

Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine! 

O that the rosebud that graces yon islands 

Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! 

O that some seedling gem, 

Worthy such noble stem, 

Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! 
Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from her deepmost glen, 

“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” 

Sir Walter Scott. 

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND! 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind! 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man’s ingratitude! 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh, ho! sing heigh, ho! unto the green holly, 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 
Then heigh, ho! the holly! 

This life is most jolly! 

299 


SONGS 


Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 


As benefits forgot! 

Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 
Heigh, ho! etc. 


William Shakespeare. 


YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

Ye Mariners of England 
That guard our native seas! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. 
The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave, 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

300 


YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 


While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep; 

Her march is o’er the mountain waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 
She quells the floods below. 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor-flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn; 

Till danger’s troubled night depart 
And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 


301 


SONGS 


FAIRY SONG 

Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier. 

Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere. 

Swifter than the moon’s sphere; 

And I serve the fairy queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 

In their gold coats spots you see; 

Those be rubies, fairy favors, 

In those freckles live their savors. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. 

William Shakespeare. 

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL 

MIRIAM’S SONG 

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea! 

Jehovah has triumphed — his people are free. 

Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken ; 

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave — 
How vain was their boast, for the Lord hath but spoken, 
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea; 

Jehovah has triumphed — his people are free. 

302 


JOG ON. JOG ON 

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! 

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword. — 
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, 
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. 
Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea, 

Jehovah has triumphed — his people are free ! 

Thomas Moore. 

HARK! HARK! THE LARK 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 

And Phoebus ’gins arise, 

His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies; 

And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes; 

With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise; 

Arise, arise. 

William Shakespeare. 

JOG ON, JOG ON 

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 

And merrily hent the stile-a; 

A merry heart goes all the day, 

Your sad tires in a mile-a. 

William Shakespeare. 


303 


SONGS 


I THINK WHEN I READ THAT 
SWEET STORY OF OLD 

I think when I read that sweet story of old, 

When Jesus was here among men, 

How He call’d little children as lambs to His fold, 

I should like to have been with them then. 

I wish that His hands had been placed on my head, 
That His arm had been thrown around me, 

And that I might have seen His kind look when He said, 
“Let the little ones come unto me.” 

Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go. 

And ask for a share in His love; 

And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, 

I shall see Him and hear Him above; 

In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare 
For all who are washed and forgiven; 

And many dear children shall be with Him there, 

For of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

But thousands and thousands who wander and fall, 
Never heard of that heavenly home; 

I wish they could know there is room for them all, 
And that Jesus has bid them to come. 

Jemima Luke. 


304 


THE THREE FISHERS 


THE THREE FISHERS 

Three fishers went sailing out into the West, 

Out into the West as the sun went down; 

Each thought on the woman who lov’d him the best; 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town; 

For men must work, and women must weep, 

And there’s little to earn, and many to keep, 

Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 

And they trimm’d the lamps as the sun went down; 
They look’d at the squall, and they look’d at the shower. 
And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown ! 
But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 
For those who will never come back to the town; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 

And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep — 

And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley . 


305 


SONGS 


CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 

When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark! 

And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place 
The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have cross’d the bar. 


Alfred Tennyson . 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 



WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED 
THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT 


While shepherds watched their flocks by night, 
All seated on the ground, 

The angel of the Lord came down, 

And glory shone around. 

“Fear not,” said he, for mighty dread 
Had seized their troubled mind; 

“Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind. 

“To you, in David’s town, this day 
Is born of David’s line 
The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord; 

And this shall be the sign: 

“The heavenly Babe you there shall find 
To human view displayed, 

All meanly wrapt in swaddling bands, 

And in a manger laid.” 

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith 
Appeared a shining throng 
Of angels praising God, who thus 
Addressed their joyful song: 

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CHRISTMAS POEMS 


“All glory be to God on high, 

And on the earth be peace; 

Good-will henceforth from heaven to men 
Begin and never cease.” 

Nahum Tate. 

CHRISTMAS BELLS 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day 

Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 
The words repeat 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 

The belfries of all Christendom 
Had rolled along 
The unbroken song 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 

The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 

The cannon thundered in the South, 

And with the sound 
The carols drowned 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

310 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 
The household born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And in despair I bowed my head; 

“There is no peace on earth,” I said; 

“For hate is strong. 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: 
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep! 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail, 

With peace on earth, good-will to men!” 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL 

There’s a song in the air! 

There’s a star in the sky! 

There’s a mother’s deep prayer 
And a baby’s low cry! 

And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 

There’s a tumult of joy 
O’er the wonderful birth, 

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CHRISTMAS POEMS 


For the virgin’s sweet boy 
Is the Lord of the earth. 

Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 

In the light of that star 
Lie the ages impearled; 

And that song from afar 
Has swept over the world. 

Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing 
In the homes of the nations that Jesus is king. 

We rejoice in the light, 

And we echo the song 

That comes down through the night 

From the heavenly throng. 

Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, 
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. 

J. G. Holland. 


O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM 

O little town of Bethlehem! 

How still we see thee lie; 

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
The silent stars go by; 

Yet in thy dark streets shineth 
The everlasting Light; 

The hopes and fears of all the years 
Are met in thee to-night. 

312 


O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM 


For Christ is born of Mary, 

And gathered all above. 

While mortals sleep, the angels keep 
Their watch of wondering love. 

O morning stars, together 
Proclaim the holy birth! 

And praises sing to God the King 
And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently. 

The wondrous gift is given! 

So God imparts to human hearts 
The blessings of His heaven. 

No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin, 

Where meek souls will receive Him still, 

The dear Christ enters in. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem! 

Descend to us, we pray; 

Cast out our sin, and enter in. 

Be bom in us to-day. 

We hear the Christmas angels 
The great glad tidings tell; 

Oh, come to us, abide with us, 

Our Lord Emmanuel! 

Phillips Brooks. 


313 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


CHRISTMAS 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 

The flying cloud, the frosty light: 

The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 

The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 

For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress for all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 

Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times: 

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite: 

314 


THE THREE KINGS 


Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 

Ring out the darkness of the land, — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE THREE KINGS 

Three Kings came riding from far away, 
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; 

Three Wise Men out of the East were they, 

And they traveled by night and they slept by day, 
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, 

That all the other stars of the sky 
Became a white mist in the atmosphere, 

And by this they knew that the coming was near 
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, 
Three caskets of gold with golden keys; 

315 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


Their robes were of crimson silk with rows 
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, 

Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, 
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, 
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, 
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest. 
With the people they met at some wayside well. 

“Of the child that is bom,” said Baltasar, 

“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; 

For we in the East have seen his star, 

And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, 

To find and worship the King of the Jews.” 

And the people answered, “You ask in vain; 

We know of no king but Herod the Great!” 
They thought the Wise Men were men insane, 

As they spurred their horses across the plain, 

Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem, 

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, 
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; 

And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem, 

And bring me tidings of this new king.” 

So they rode away; and the star stood still, 

The only one in the gray of mom; 

Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, 
316 


THE THREE KINGS 


Right over Bethlehem on the hill. 

The city of David where Christ was bom. 

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the 
guard, 

Through the silent street, till their horses turned 
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; 

But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, 
And only a light in the stable burned. 

And cradled there in the scented hay, 

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine. 

The little child in the manger lay, 

The child that would be king one day 
Of a kingdom not human but divine. 

His mother Mary of Nazareth 

Sat watching beside his place of rest. 

Watching the even flow of his breath, 

For the joy of life and the terror of death 
Were mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet: 

The gold was their tribute to a King, 

The frankincense, with its odor sweet, 

Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, 

The myrrh for the body’s burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, 

And sat as still as a statue of stone; 

Her heart was troubled yet comforted, 

317 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


Remembering what the Angel had said 
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, 

With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; 

But they went not back to Herod the Great, 

For they knew his malice and feared his hate, 
And returned to their homes by another way. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


HYMN ON THE MORNING OF 
CHRIST’S NATIVITY 

It was the winter wild 
While the heaven -born Child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature in awe to Him 
Had doffed her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize: 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; 
And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 
Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
318 


MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY 


But He, her fears to cease, 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; 

She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 

His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand, 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war or battle’s sound 
Was heard the world around: 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 

The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 

And kings sat still with awful eye, 

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But 'peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began. 

The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kist, 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 

Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze, 

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influence; 

And will not take their flight 
319 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow 

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 

And hid his head for shame, 

As his inferior flame 

The new-enlightened world no more should need; 

He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn 
Or ere the point of dawn 
Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they then 
Xhat the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 
As never was by mortal finger strook, — 

Divinely warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took: 

The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 
320 


MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY 


Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia’s seat, the aery region thrilling, 

Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; 

She knew such harmony alone 

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light 

That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; 
The helmed Cherubim, 

And sworded Seraphim, 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, 

Harping in loud and solemn quire 

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s new-born Heir. 

Such music (as ’t is said) 

Before was never made 
But when of old the sons of morning sung, 

While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; 

And cast the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres! 

Once bless our human ears, 

If ye have power to touch our senses so; 

And let your silver chime 
321 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


Move in melodious time; 

And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow; 

And with your ninefold harmony 

Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; 

And speckled vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; 

And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 

Mercy will sit between 
Throned in celestial sheen. 

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 

Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest Fate says No, 

This must not yet be so; 

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, 

That on the bitter cross • 

Must redeem our loss; 

So both himself and us to glorify: 

Yet first, to those ychained in sleep. 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the 
deep; 


322 


MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY 


With such a horrid clang 
As on mount Sinai rang, 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : 
The aged Earth aghast 
With terror of that blast 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 

When, at the world’s last session, 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 

But now begins; for from this happy day 
The old Dragon, under ground 
In straiter limits bound. 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway; 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 

Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb; 

No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving: 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: 

No nightly trance or breathed spell 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o’er 
And the resounding shore 
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 

From haunted spring and dale 
Edged with poplar pale 
323 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 


The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 

With flower-inwoven tresses torn 

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth 
And on the holy hearth 

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; 

In urns, and altars round 
A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 

And the chill marble seems to sweat, 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 

Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim. 

With that twice-battered god of Palestine; 

And mooned Ashtaroth, 

Heaven’s queen and mother both, 

Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine; 

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 

And sullen Moloch, fled, 

Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue; 

In vain with cymbals’ ring 
They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 

The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

324 


MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY 


Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove, or green, 

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest; 

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; 

In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 

The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. 

He feels from Juda’s land. 

The dreaded Infant’s hand; 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; 

Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 

For Typhon huge ending in snaky twine 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bed 
Curtained with cloudy red, 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 

The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; 

And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 

But see, the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 
Heaven’s youngest-teemed star 
325 


CHRISTMAS POEMS 

Hath fixed her polished car, 

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending : 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 

John Milton. 


POEMS OF NATURE 




HAPPY THOUGHT 


The world is so full of a number of things, 

I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


ROBERT OF LINCOLN 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 

Near to the nest of his little dame, 

Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Snug and safe is this nest of ours, 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; 
White are his shoulders, and white his crest; 
Hear him call in his merry note, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Look what a nice, new coat is mine; 

Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

329 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she; 

One weak chirp is her only note; 

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 

Pouring boasts from his little throat, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Never was I afraid of man, 

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: 

There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Nice good wife that never goes out, 

Keeping house while I frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 

Six wide mouths are open for food; 

330 


ROBERT OF LINCOLN 


Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 

Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

This new life is likely to be 

Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care; 

Off is his holiday garment laid, 

Half forgotten that merry air, 

Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows, 

Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum drone; 

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

William Cullen Bryant . 


331 


POEMS OF NATURE 


IN MARCH 

The cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter, 

The green field sleeps in the sun; 

The oldest and youngest 
Are at work with the strongest; 

The cattle are grazing. 

Their heads never raising; 

There are forty feeding like one! 

Like an army defeated, 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 
On the top of the bare hill; 

The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon. 
There’s joy in the mountains; 

There’s life in the fountains; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing; 

The rain is over and gone! 

William Wordsworth. 


332 


DAFFODILS 


THE RHODORA 

ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 

The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 

Made the black water with their beauty gay; 

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: 

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew: 

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

DAFFODILS 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o’er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils, — 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

333 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company: 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 

SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND 

FROM “THE BIGLOW PAPERS” 

I, country-born an’ bred, know where to find 
Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, 
An’ seem to metch the doubtin’ bluebird’s notes, — 
Half-vent’rin’ liverworts in furry coats, 

Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, 
Each on ’em’s cradle to a baby-pearl, — 

334 


SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND 


But these are jes’ Spring’s pickets; sure ez sin, 
The rebble frosts’ll try to drive ’em in; 

For half our May’s so awfully like Mayn’t, 

’T would rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; 

Though I own up I like our back’ard springs 
Thet kind o’ haggle with their greens an’ things, 
An’ when you ’most give up, ’ithout more words 
Toss the fields full o’ blossoms, leaves, an’ birds: 
Thet’s Northun natur’, slow, an’ apt to doubt, 

But when it doos git stirred, ther’s no gin-out! 

Fust come the blackbirds clatt’rin’ in tall trees, 

An’ settlin’ things in windy Congresses, — 

Queer politicians, though, for I’ll be skinned 
Ef all on ’em don’t head against the wind. 

’Fore long the trees begin to show belief, — 

The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, 

Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers 
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, 

Then gray hoss-ches’nuts leetle hands unfold 
Softer ’n a baby’s be at three days old: 

Thet’s robin-redbreast’s almanick; he knows 
Thet arter this ther’s only blossom-snows; 

So, choosin’ out a handy crotch an’ spouse, 

He goes to plast’rin’ his adobe house. 

Then seems to come a hitch, — things lag behind, 
Till some fine mornin’ Spring makes up her mind, 
An’ ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams 
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an’ jams, 

A leak comes spirtin’ thru some pin-hole cleft, 

335 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an’ left, 

Then all the waters bow themselves an’ come, 
Suddin, in one great slope o’ shedderin’ foam, 

Jes’ so our Spring gits everythin’ in tune. 

An’ gives one leap from April into June: 

Then all comes crowdin’ in; afore you think, 

Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; 
The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud; 

The orchards turn to heaps o’ rosy cloud; 

Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, 

An’ look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 

The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o’ shade, 

An’ drows’ly simmer with the bees’ sweet trade; 

In ellum-shrouds the flashin’ hang-bird clings 
An’ for the summer vy’ge his hammock slings: 

All down the loose-walled lanes in archin’ bowers 
The barb’ry droops its strings o’ golden flowers, 
Whose shrinkin’ hearts the school-gals love to try 
With pins, — they ’ll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby ! 
But I don’t love your cat’logue style, — do you ? — 
Ez ef to sell off Natur’ by vendoo; 

One word with blood in’t’s twice ez good ez two; 
’Nuff sed, June’s bridesman, poet o’ the year, 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; 

Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, 

Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin’ wings, 

Or, givin’ way to ’t in a mock despair. 

Runs down, a brook o’ laughter, thru the air. 

James Russell Lowell. 


336 


TO THE DANDELION 


TO THE DANDELION 

Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 

First pledge of blithesome May, 

Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o’er joyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth’s ample round 
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; 

’T is the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God’s value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; 

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: 
Not in mid June the golden -cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white lily’s breezy tent, 

His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

337 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, 

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass, 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 

Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, 

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee 
The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 

And I, secure in childish piety, 

Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from heaven, which he could bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art; 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 

Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God’s book. 

James Russell Lowell . 


338 


HAREBELLS 


LITTLE LAMB 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 

Dost thou know who made thee, 

Gave thee life, and made thee feed 
By the stream and o’er the mead ? 

Gave thee clothing of delight, — 

Softest clothing, woolly, bright? 

Gave thee such a tender voice, 

Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: 

He is called by thy name, 

For He calls Himself a lamb. 

He is meek, and He is mild; 

He became a little child: 

I a child, and thou a lamb, 

We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 

William Blake. 


HAREBELLS 

Blue sky and bluer sea. 

And harebell at my feet 
Blue yet more utterly, 

Why is your hue so sweet ? 
339 


POEMS OF NATURE 


What fibre of my soul 
Thrills at your loveliness ? 

Why should a tint control 
My heart like a caress ? 

Blue sky and bluer sea 
And harebell at my feet. 

How can mere color be 
Beyond all telling sweet ? 

Arlo Bates. 


THE HOUSEKEEPER 

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, 

Carries his house with him, where’er he goes; 
Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain. 
Retreats to his small domicile again. 

Touch but a tip of him, a horn — ’t is well — 

He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 

He’s his own landlord, his own tenant; stay 
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter-day. 
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites 
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o’ nights. 
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
Chattels; himself is his own furniture, 

And his sole riches. Wheresoe’er he roam — 
Knock when you will — he ’s sure to be at home. 

Charles Lamb. 


340 


LITTLE WHITE LILY 


LITTLE WHITE LILY 

Little white Lily 
Sat by a stone, 

Drooping and waiting 
Till the sun shone. 

Little white Lily 
Sunshine has fed; 

Little white Lily 
Is lifting her head. 

Little white Lily 
Said, “It is good. 

Little white Lily’s 
Clothing and food.” 

Little white Lily 
Drest like a bride! 

Shining with whiteness, 

And crowned beside! 

Little white Lily 
Droopeth with pain, 

Waiting and waiting 
For the wet rain. 

Little white Lily 
Holdeth her cup; 

Rain is fast falling 
And filling it up. 

341 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Little white Lily 
Said, “Good again, 

When I am thirsty 
To have fresh rain. 

Now I am stronger, 

Now I am cool; 

Heat cannot burn me, 

My veins are so full.” 

Little white Lily 
Smells very sweet; 

On her head sunshine. 

Rain at her feet. 

Thanks to the sunshine, 

Thanks to the rain! 

Little white Lily 
Is happy again! 

George Macdonald. 


SWINGING ON A BIRCH-TREE 

Swinging on a birch-tree 
To a sleepy tune, 

Hummed by all the breezes 
In the month of June! 

Little leaves a-flutter, 

Sound like dancing drops 
Of a brook on pebbles; 

Song that never stops. 

342 


SWINGING ON A BIRCH-TREE 


Up and down we seesaw 
Up into the sky; 

How it opens on us, 

Like a wide blue eye! 

You and I are sailors 
Rocking on a mast; 

And the world’s our vessel: 
Ho! she sails so fast! 

Blue, blue sea around us; 

Not a ship in sight! 

They will hang out lanterns 
When they pass, to-night. 
We with ours will follow 
Through the midnight deep; 
Not a thought of danger. 
Though the crew’s asleep. 

Oh, how still the air is! 

There an oriole flew; 

What a jolly whistle! 

He’s a sailor, too. 

Yonder is his hammock 
In the elm-top high; 

One more ballad, messmate! 
Sing it as you fly! 

Up and down we seesaw; 

Down into the grass. 
Scented fern, and rosebuds. 

All a woven mass. 

343 


POEMS OF NATURE 


That’s the sort of carpet 
Fitted for our feet! 

Tapestry nor velvet 
Is so rich and neat. 

Swinging on a birch-tree! 

This is summer joy, 

Fun for all vacation; 

Don’t you think so, boy ? 

Up and down to seesaw, 

Merry and at ease. 

Careless as a brook is, 

Idle as the breeze! 

Lucy Larcom. 


DARTSIDE 


I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, 

I cannot tell what you say; 

But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, 

I cannot tell what you say: 

But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, 

I cannot tell what you say: 

But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, 
And a word doth speak this day. 

344 


NOTHING 


“Oh, green is the color of faith and truth, 

And rose the color of love and youth. 

And brown of the fruitful clay. 

Sweet earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, 

And her bridal day shall come ere long. 

And you shall know what the rocks and the streams 
And the whispering woodlands say.” 

Charles Kingsley. 


NOTHING 

There is nothing to see! 

It is only a silver birch; 

But it comes like a beautiful joy to me. 

Like the joy you feel so calm and free, 

When all is still as still can be. 

After a psalm in the church. 

It is so fair and light! 

It grows on a rock by a well! 

The rock is so strong and the birch is so slight, 
That they fill my heart with a strange delight, 

And I think they make a wonderful sight, 

Though why I can never tell. 

The rock I grasp and reach, 

And the birch-tree I cannot touch; 

But its rustling leaves have a tender speech. 

For I feel a peculiar love for each, 

And I know that their whispered words can teach. 
And comfort me very much. 

345 


POEMS OF NATURE 


The rock is strong and wild, 

And the well is wide and deep; 

So I nodded my little head and smiled, 

For I felt that they both could protect a child; 
And the birch-tree murmured soft and mild. 
And so I fell fast asleep. 

Why should this written be ? 

And what have I got to tell ? 

The wise, wise people will laugh at me, 

And say there is nothing at all to see, 

Only a rock, and only a tree, 

And only a little well. Unknown. 


FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE FOUNTAIN 

Into the sunshine. 

Full of the light, 

Leaping and flashing 
From morn till night; 

346 


THE FOUNTAIN 


Into the moonlight, 

Whiter than snow, 
Waving so flower-like 
When the winds blow; 

Into the starlight 
Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight, 

Happy by day; 

Ever in motion, 

Blithesome and cheery, 
Still climbing heavenward. 
Never aweary; 

Glad of all weathers, 

Still seeming best, 
Upward or downward. 
Motion thy rest; 

Full of a nature 
Nothing can tame, 
Changed every moment, 
Ever the same; 

Ceaseless aspiring, 
Ceaseless content, 
Darkness or sunshine 
Thy element; 

Glorious fountain, 

Let my heart be 
347 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Fresh, changeful, constant, 

Upward, like thee! 

James Russell Lowell. 


THE HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly, dozing humble-bee, 

Where thou art is clime for me. 

Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid zone! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 

Let me chase thy waving lines; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion! 

Sailor of the atmosphere; 

Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon; 
Epicurean of June, — 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall, 

348 


THE HUMBLE-BEE 


And with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance, 

And, infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets, 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer’s petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
Firmest cheer, and bird -like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my inscet never seen; 

But violets and bilberry bells, 
Maple-sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 

Columbine with horn of honey, 

Scented fern, and agrimony. 

Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 

349 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher! 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 

Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat; 

When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 

Thou already slumberest deep; 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep: 

Want and woe, which torture us. 

Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

DON 

This is Don, the dog of all dogs, 

Just as lions outrank small frogs, 

Just as eagles are superior 
To buzzards and that tribe inferior. 

He ’s a shepherd lad, — a beauty, — 

And to praise him seems a duty. 

But it puts my pen to shame, sir, 

When his virtues I would name, sir. 

‘Don! come here and bend your head now, 
Let us see your best well-bred bow!” 

Was there ever such a creature ? 
Common-sense in every feature! 

‘Don! rise up and look around you!” 
Blessings on the day we found you. 

350 


DON 


Sell him! well, upon my word, sir, 
That’s a notion too absurd, sir. 

Would I sell our little Ally, 

Barter Tom, dispose of Sally ? 

Think you I’d negotiate 
For my wife at any rate ? 

Sell our Don! you’re surely joking, 
And ’t is fun at us you ’re poking ! 
Twenty voyages we’ve tried, sir, 
Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir, 

And Don and I will not divide, sir; 
He’s my friend , that’s why I love him, 
And no mortal dog’s above him! 

He prefers a life aquatic, 

But never dog was less dogmatic. 

Years ago, when I was master 
Of a tight brig called the Castor, 

Don and I were bound for Cadiz, 

With the loveliest of ladies 
And her boy — a stalwart, hearty, 
Crowing, one-year infant party, 

Full of childhood’s myriad graces, 
Bubbling sunshine in our faces 
As we bowled along so steady, 
Half-way home, or more, already. 

How the sailors loved our darling! 

No more swearing, no more snarling; 
On their backs, when not on duty, 
Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty, 
351 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing, — 
All the crew took turns in dancing; 
Every tar played Punchinello 
With the pretty, laughing fellow; 

Even the second mate gave sly winks 
At the noisy mid-day high jinks. 

Never was a crew so happy 
With a curly-headed chappy, 

Never were such sports gigantic, 

Never dog with joy more antic. 

While thus jolly, all together, 

There blew up a change of weather, 
Nothing stormy, but quite breezy, 

And the wind grew damp and wheezy. 
Like a gale in too low spirits 
To put forth one half its merits. 

But, perchance, a dry-land ranger 
Might suspect some kind of danger. 

Soon our staunch and gallant vessel 
With the waves began to wrestle, 

And to jump about a trifle, 

Sometimes kicking like a rifle 
When ’t is slightly overloaded, 

But by no means nigh exploded. 

’T was the coming on of twilight, 

As we stood abaft the skylight, 
Scampering round to please the baby 
(Old Bill Benson held him, maybe), 
352 


THE TIGER 


When the youngster stretched his fingers 
Towards the spot where sunset lingers, 

And with strong and sudden motion 
Leaped into the weltering ocean! 

“ What did Don do?” Can’t you guess, sir? 
He sprang also, — by express, — sir; 

Seized the infant’s little dress, sir, 

Held the baby’s head up boldly 
From the waves that rushed so coldly; 

And in just about a minute 
Our boat had them safe within it. 

Sell him! Would you sell your brother? 

Don and I love one another! 

James T. Fields. 

THE TIGER 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 

On what wings dare he aspire ? 

What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 

353 


POEMS OF NATURE 


And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 

In what furnace was thy brain ? 

What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 

And watered heaven with their tears, 

Did he smile his work to see ? 

Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee ? 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 

In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

William Blake. 

THE IVY GREEN 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o’er ruins old! 

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 
To pleasure his dainty whim; 

And the mouldering dust that years have made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

354 


WAYSIDE FLOWERS 


Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 
And a staunch old heart has he. 

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 
To his friend the huge Oak Tree! 

And slily he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 

Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, 
And nations have scattered been; 

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, 

From its hale and hearty green. 

The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past: 

For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy’s food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Charles Dickens. 

WAYSIDE FLOWERS 

Pluck not the wayside flower; 

It is the traveler’s dower. 

A thousand passers-by 
Its beauties may espy, 

May win a touch of blessing 
From Nature’s mild caressing. 

355 


POEMS OF NATURE 


The sad of heart perceives 
A violet under leaves, 

Like some fresh-budding hope; 

The primrose on the slope 
A spot of sunshine dwells 
And cheerful message tells 
Of kind renewing power; 

The nodding bluebell’s dye 
Is drawn from happy sky. 

Then spare the wayside flower! 

It is the traveler’s dower. 

William Allingham. 


A JOURNEY 

I never saw the hills so far 
And blue, the way the pictures are; 

And flowers, flowers growing thick, 
But not a one for me to pick! 

The land was running from the train 
All blurry through the window-pane; 

And then it all looked flat and still, 
When up there jumped a little hill! 

I saw the windows and the spires, 
And sparrows sitting on the wires; 
356 


GEIST’S GRAVE 


And fences running up and down; 

And then we cut straight through a town. 

I saw a valley, like a cup; 

And ponds that twinkled, and dried up. 

I counted meadows that were burnt; 

And there were trees, and then there were n’t! 

We crossed the bridges with a roar, 

Then hummed the way we went before. 

And tunnels made it dark and light 
Like open-work of day and night; 

Until I saw the chimneys rise, 

And lights and lights and lights, like eyes. 

And when they took me through the door, 

I heard it all begin to roar. — 

I thought, as far as I could see. 

That everybody wanted me! 

Josephine Preston Peabody. 

GEIST’S GRAVE 

Four years ! — and didst thou stay above 
The ground, which hides thee now, but four ? 
And all that life, and all that love, 

Were crowded, Geist ! into no more ? 

357 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Only four years those winning ways, 

Which make me for thy presence yearn, 
Call’d us to pet thee or to praise, 

Dear little friend ! at every turn ? 

That loving heart, that patient soul, 

Had they indeed no longer span, 

To run their course, and reach their goal, 
And read their homily to man ? 

That liquid, melancholy eye, 

From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs 
Seem’d urging the Virgilian cry, 

The sense of tears in mortal things — 

That steadfast, mournful strain, consol’d 
By spirits gloriously gay. 

And temper of heroic mould — 

What, was four years their whole short day ? 

Yes, only four! — and not the course 
Of all the centuries yet to come, 

And not the infinite resource 
Of Nature, with her countless sum 

Of figures, with her fullness vast 
Of new creation evermore, 

Can ever quite repeat the past, 

Or just thy little self restore. 

Stern law of every mortal lot! 

Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 
358 


GEIST’S GRAVE 


And builds himself I know not what 
Of second life I know not where. 

But thou, when struck thine hour to go, 

On us, who stood despondent by, 

A meek last glance of love didst throw, 

And humbly lay thee down to die. 

Yet would we keep thee in our heart — 
Would fix our favorite on the scene, 

Nor let thee utterly depart 

And be as if thou ne’er hadst been. 

And so there rise these lines of verse 
On lips that rarely form them now; 

While to each other we rehearse: 

Such ways , such arts , such looks hadst thou ! 

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 

We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 

We greet thee by the window-pane, 

We hear thy scuffle on the stair. 

We see the flaps of thy large ears 
Quick rais’d to ask which way we go; 
Crossing the frozen lake, appears 
Thy small black figure on the snow! 

Nor to us only art thou dear 
Who mourn thee in thine English home; 
Thou hast thine absent master’s tear, 
Dropp’d by the far Australian foam. 

359 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Thy memory lasts both here and there, 

And thou shalt live as long as we. 

And after that — thou dost not care ! 

In us was all the world to thee. 

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame. 

Even to a date beyond our own 
We strive to carry down thy name, 

By mounded turf, and graven stone. 

We lay thee, close within our reach, 

Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, 
Between the holly and the beech, 

Where oft we watch’d thy couchant form, 

Asleep, yet lending half an ear 
To travelers on the Portsmouth road ; — 
There build we thee, O guardian dear, 
Mark’d with a stone, thy last abode! 

Then some, who through this garden pass. 
When we too, like thyself, are clay, 

Shall see thy grave upon the grass, 

And stop before the stone, and say: 

People who lived here long ago 
Did by this stone , it seems , intend 
To name for future times to know 
The dachs-hound , Geist , their little friend. 

Matthew Arnold. 


360 


THE KINGFISHER 


THE KINGFISHER 

He laughs by the summer stream 
Where the lilies nod and dream, 

As through the sheen of water cool and clear 
He sees the chub and sunfish cutting sheer. 

His are resplendent eyes; 

His mien is kingliwise; 

And down the May wind rides he like a king. 
With more than royal purple on his wing. 

His palace is the brake 

Where the rushes shine and shake; 

His music is the murmur of the stream. 

And that leaf-rustle where the lilies dream. 

Such life as his would be 
A more than heaven to me: 

All sun, all bloom, all happy weather. 

All joys bound in a sheaf together. 

No wonder he laughs so loud ! 

No wonder he looks so proud ! 

There are great kings would give their royalty 
To have one day of his felicity! 

Maurice Thompson. 


361 


POEMS OF NATURE 


AUTUMN AMONG THE BIRDS 

Enter a little Snipe {crying). 

Peet-weet ! Peet-weet ! 

I’ve such cold feet, 

And nothing to eat! 

The creek is so high 
That I can’t keep dry 
Except when I fly! 

Peet-weet ! 

A Kildeer 

Kildee ! Kildee ! Kildee ! 

This is no place for me! 

The southland I must seek — 

Kildee ! 

A Bobolink 

Link-a-link ! Link-a-link ! 

My diet has made me weak; 

The fields of rice must be so nice. 

{To the Kildeer.) 

I ’ll go with you, I think — 

Link-a-link ! 

A Red-shouldered Blackbird 

Bobaree ! Bobaree ! 

A frost you ’ll see — 

You’ll see to your sorrow, 

362 


AUTUMN AMONG THE BIRDS 

If you wait till to-morrow — 

Bobaree ! 

A Chipping-bird 

Chip-chip ! Chip-chip ! Chip-chip ! 

I’ll give November the slip! 

A House-Wren 
Sh! Sh! Sh! 

Every one loves the Wren! 

Wait, and just once again 
I’ll go, and, as still as a mouse, 

Peep into the little house 
They built for my use alone, 

With a door and a porch like their own ! 

— Sh! 

A Maryland Yellow-throat ( interrupting ) 

Witches here! Witches here! 

And no wonder — so late in the year! 

A Flock of Wild Geese ( flying over) 

On ! On ! On ! 

Why should we longer stay ? 

On! Ere the peep of day 
We should be leagues away, 

Quite out of sight of land! 

Our old gray Commodore 
Will guide our gallant band 
To a pleasant southern shore, 

363 


POEMS OF NATURE 


With the daintiest food in store! 

On ! On ! On ! 

A Flock of Swallows {rising) 

Zip! Zip! You may count on the Swallow! 

We hear, and an ear we will be; 

The rest, if they like, may follow 
O’er land and o’er sea. 

A Bluebird {to her mate) 

Weary! Oh weary! Oh weary! 

It’s a long, long, long way, dearie! 

A Robin 

Quip! Quip! Cheer up! Cheer up! 

But I think we ought first to sup; 

With such a long journey ahead, 

Pilgrims should be well fed — 

Quip! Quip! 

A Highholder {shouts from the top of a dead tree) 

A-wick-wick! wick- wick! wick- wick! wick! Yare-op! 
If all this senseless chatter you would stop, 

And listen, an announcement I would make: — 

Old Father Crane will soon be here to take 
All you small folks upon his back — Wick- wick ! 

Chorus of Small Birds (Chippy, Wren, Yellow-bird, 
Pewee, Kinglet, etc.) 

Peet-weet! Zit! Zit! Cheeree! Ittee! Be quick! 

Edith M. Thomas. 


364 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE 

Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; 
Wide let its hollow bed be made; 

There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care. 

And press it o’er them tenderly, 

As, round the sleeping infant’s feet. 

We softly fold the cradle-sheet; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; 

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 

A shadow for the noontide hour, 

A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May- wind’s restless wings, 

When, from the orchard-row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 

Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, 

365 


POEMS OF NATURE 


For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 

And redden in the August noon, 

And drop, when gentle airs come by, 

That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree, 

The winter stars are quivering bright, 

And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth. 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 

Where men shall wonder at the view. 

And ask in what fair groves they grew; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood’s careless day. 

And long, long hours of summer play, 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

366 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE 


Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 

And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 

The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 

The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 

Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 

Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be. 

Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 
Is wasting this little apple-tree ? 

“Who planted this old apple-tree?” 

The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 

And, gazing on its mossy stem, 

The gray-haired man shall answer them: 

“A poet of the land was he, 

Born in the rude but good old times; 

’T is said he made some quaint old rhymes, 
On planting the apple-tree.” 

William Cullen Bryant. 


367 


POEMS OF NATURE 


TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 

And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com’st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
And frost and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 

Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 

Hope, blossoming within my heart, 

May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


368 


TO A WATERFOWL 


TO A WATERFOWL 

Whither, ’midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day ? 
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean-side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 

The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned 
At that far height the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end, 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 

369 


POEMS OF NATURE 


And scream among thy fellows: reeds shall bend. 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

TO A MOUSE 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH 
THE PLOUGH 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie, 

Oh, what a panic ’s in thy breastie ! 

Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 

Wi’ murd’ring pattle! 

I ’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
Has broken Nature’s social union, 

An’ justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 


370 


TO A MOUSE 


At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
An’ fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 

A daimen icker in a thrave 
’S a sma’ request: 

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, 

And never miss’t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! 

An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O’ foggage green! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, 

Baith snell an’ keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, 

An’ weary winter cornin’ fast, 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro’ thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 

Now thou ’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble, 
But house or hald, 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, 

An’ cranreuch cauld! 


371 


POEMS OF NATURE 


But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 

In proving foresight may be vain: 

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men 
Gang aft a-gley, 

An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! 

The present only toucheth thee: 

But, och ! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear! 

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, 

I guess an’ fear! 

Robert Bums . 


THE SNOW-STORM 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end. 

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind’s masonry. 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 


372 


THE BROOK 


Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 

Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 

Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


THE BROOK 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally. 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 


373 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come, and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays; 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here arid there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me as I travel, 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

374 


THE CATARACT OF LODORE 


For men may come, and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers, 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slid, I gloom, I glance, 

Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come, and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE CATARACT OF LODORE 

“How does the water 

Come down at Lodore?” 

My little boy asked me 
Thus once on a time; 

And moreover he tasked me 
To tell him in rhyme. 

375 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Anon, at the word, 

There first came one daughter, 
And then came another, 

To second and third 
The request of their brother, 
And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 

With its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 
They had seen it before. 

So I told them in rhyme, 

For of rhymes I had store; 

And ’t was in my vocation 
For their recreation 
That so I should sing, 

Because I was Laureate 
To them and the king. 

From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell; 

From its fountains 
In the mountains, 

Its rills and its gills, — 
Through moss and through brake 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while, till it sleeps 
In its own little lake. 

And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds 
376 


THE CATARACT OF LODORE 


Through meadow and glade, 
In sun and in shade, 

And through the wood-shelter, 
Among crags in its flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 

Here it comes sparkling, 

And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 

Till, in this rapid race 
On which it is bent, 

It reaches the place 
Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 
Striking and raging, 

As if a war waging 
Its cavern and rocks among; 
Rising and leaping, 

Sinking and creeping, 
Swelling and sweeping, 
Showering and springing, 
Flying and flinging, 
Writhing and ringing, 
Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking, 
Turning and twisting, 
Around and around 
With endless rebound! 

377 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Smiting and fighting, 

A sight to delight in; 

Confounding, astounding, 

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 

Collecting, projecting, 

Receding and speeding, ' 

And shocking and rocking, 

And darting and parting, 

And threading and spreading, 

And whizzing and hissing, 

And dripping and skipping, 

And hitting and splitting, 

And shining and twining, 

And rattling and battling, 

And shaking and quaking, 

And pouring and roaring, 

And waving and raving, 

And tossing and crossing, 

And flowing and going. 

And running and stunning, 

And foaming and roaming. 

And dinning and spinning, 

And dropping and hopping, 

And working and jerking, 

And guggling and struggling, 

And heaving and cleaving, 

And moaning and groaning; 

And glittering and frittering, 

And gathering and feathering, 

378 


THE CATARACT OF LODORE 


And whitening and brightening, 

And quivering and shivering, 

And hurrying and skurrying, 

And thundering and floundering; 

Dividing and gliding and sliding, 

And falling and brawling and sprawling, 

And driving and riving and striving. 

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 

And sounding and bounding and rounding. 

And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 

And clattering and battering and shattering; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, 

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beam- 
ing, 

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump- 
ing, 

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; 
And so never ending, but always descending, 

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, 
All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar; 

And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 

Robert Southey. 


379 


POEMS OF NATURE 


THE SANDPIPER 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I, 

And fast I gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 

The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 

As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky; 

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly. 

As fast we flit along the beach, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 

He starts not at my fitful song. 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 

He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye: 

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong. 
The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 

380 


TO A SKYLARK 


My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky: 

For are we not God’s children both. 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? 

Celia Thaxter. 


TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! — 

Bird thou never wert — 

That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest: 

Like a cloud of fire, 

The blue deep thou wingest, 

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the sunken sun. 

O’er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight; 

381 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Like a star of heaven 
In the broad daylight, 

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere 

Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 

Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 

As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- 
flowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee ? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 

Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower, 

382 


TO A SKYLARK 


Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 

With music sweet as love which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew, 

Scattering un beholden 
Its aerial hue 

Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the 
view: 

Like a rose embowered 
In its own green leaves, 

By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 

Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal 
Or triumphal chaunt, 

383 


POEMS OF NATURE 

Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, — 

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 
Of thy happy strain ? 

Wdiat fields, or waves, or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 

What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 
Languor cannot be: 

Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee: 

Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not: 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet, if we could scorn 
Hate and pride and fear, 

384 


THE CLOUD 


If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 


Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound, 

Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know; 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 

The world should listen then as I am listening now 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


THE CLOUD 

i 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 
In their noonday dreams. 

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
The sweet buds every one, 

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast, 
As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 

385 


POEMS OF NATURE 


And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

ii 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night ’t is my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers 
Lightning my pilot sits; 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls by fits. 

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 
This pilot is guiding me, 

Lured by the love of the genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
The Spirit he loves remains; 

And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

hi 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning-star shines dead; 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 

An eagle alit one morning may sit 

386 


THE CLOUD 


In the light of its golden wings. 

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
Its ardors of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depth of heaven above, 

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

IV 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon, 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 

May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

v 

I bind the sun’s throne with the burning zone, 

And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 


387 


POEMS OF NATURE 


Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

VI 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky: 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 
Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


FORBEARANCE 

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk ? 
At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse ? 
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust ? 
388 


THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH 


And loved so well a high behavior, 

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, 
Nobility more nobly to repay ? 

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON 
HIGH 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator’s power display; 

And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 

The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 

And nightly, to the listening earth, 

Repeats the story of her birth; 

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 

And all the planets in their turn, 

Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ? 

What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? 

389 


POEMS OF NATURE 


In reason’s ear they all rejoice, 

And utter forth a glorious voice, 

Forever singing as they shine, 

“The hand that made us is divine!” 

Joseph Addison . 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 



MY COUNTRY, ’TIS OF THEE 


My country, ’t is of thee, 

Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing; 

Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the Pilgrims’ pride, 
From every mountain-side, 

Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee. 

Land of the noble free, 

Thy name I love; 

I love thy rocks and rills, 

Thy woods and templed hills; 
My heart with rapture thrills 
Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze, 

And ring from all the trees 
Sweet freedom’s song; 
Let mortal tongues awake; 

Let all that breathe partake; 
Let rocks their silence break — 
The sound prolong. 

Our fathers’ God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty. 

To Thee we sing; 

393 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


Long may our land be bright 
With freedom’s holy light; 

Protect us by Thy might, 

Great God, our King. 

Samuel Francis Smith. 

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rockbound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o’er. 

When a band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear, — 

They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea: 

394 


THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free! 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave’s foam: 

And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 
This was their welcome home! 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band : — 

Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood’s land ? 

There was woman’s fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love’s truth; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith’s pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod r 

They have left unstained what there they found, — 
Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


395 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


CONCORD HYMN 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE 
BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 

That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


396 


CARMEN BELLICOSUM 


CARMEN BELLICOSUM 

In their ragged regimentals, 

Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 

While the grenadiers were lunging, 

And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot; 

When the files 
Of the isles, 

From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of 
the rampant 
Unicorn; 

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the 
drummer 

Through the morn! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 

And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires; 

While the balls whistled deadly. 

And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires: 

As the roar 
On the shore 

Swept the strong battle-breakers o’er the green-sodded 
acres 

Of the plain; 

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, 
Cracking amain! 

397 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George’s 
Cannoneers, 

And the villainous saltpetre 
Rang a fierce, discordant metre 
Round our ears: 

As the swift 
Storm-drift, 

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards’ clangor 
On our flanks. 

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned 
fire 

Through the ranks! 

Then the bare-headed Colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 

And his broadsword was swinging, 

And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet-loud ; 

Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 

And the trooper- jackets redden at the touch of the 
leaden Rifle-breath; 

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six- 
pounder, 

Hurling death! 

Guy Humphreys McMaster. 


398 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleam- 
ing— 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds 
of the fight, 

O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming ! 

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
there; 

Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep. 
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes. 
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam. 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 

’T is the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pol- 
lution. 


399 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n-rescued 
land 

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a 
nation. 

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto — “In God is our trust: ” 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

Francis Scott Key. 


BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord ; 

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 
wrath are stored ! 

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift 
sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps; 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps; 


400 


BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 


I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flar- 
ing lamps: 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel : 

“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 
shall deal: 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 
his heel, 

Since God is marching on.” 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment- 
seat; 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my 
feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 
sea. 

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 
me: 

As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 


401 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


OLD IRONSIDES 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 

Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar: 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 
And waves were white below, 

No more shall feel the victor’s tread. 

Or know the conquered knee: 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave! 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave: 

Nail to the mast her holy flag. 

Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning, and the gale! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


402 




AY, TEAR HER TATTERED ENSIGN DOWN! 

LONG HAS IT WAVED ON HIGH, 

AND MANY AN EYE HAS DANCED TO SEE 
THAT BANNER IN THE SKY; 

BENEATH IT RUNG THE BATTLE-SHOUT, 
AND BURST THE CANNON’S ROAR: 

THE METEOR OF THE OCEAN AIR 

SHALL SWEEP THE CLOUDS NO MORE! 

NAIL TO THE MAST HER HOLY FLAG, 

SET EVERY THREADBARE SAIL, 

AND GIVE HER TO THE GOD OF STORMS, 
THE LIGHTNING AND THE GALE : 




a 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 


O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought 
is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exult- 
ing. 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring; 

But O heart! heart! heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle 
trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the 
shores a-crowding, 

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 

Here Captain! dear father! 

This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You ’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor 
will, 


403 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed 
and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 
won; 

Exult O shores, and ring O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 

BOSTON HYMN 

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863 

The word of the Lord by night 
To the watching Pilgrims came, 

As they sat by the seaside, 

And filled their hearts with flame. 

God said, I am tired of kings, 

I suffer them no more; 

Up to my ear the morning brings 
The outrage of the poor. 

Think ye I made this ball 
A field of havoc and war, 

Where tyrants great and tyrants small 
Might harry the weak and poor ? 

My angel, — his name is Freedom, — 

Choose him to be your king; 

404 


BOSTON HYMN 


He shall cut pathways east and west 
And fend you with his wing. 

Lo! I uncover the land 
Which I hid of old time in the West, 
As the sculptor uncovers the statue 
When he has wrought his best; 

I show Columbia, of the rocks 
Which dip their foot in the seas 
And soar to the air-borne flocks 
Of clouds and the boreal fleece. 

I will divide my goods; 

Call in the wretch and slave: 

None shall rule but the humble. 

And none but Toil shall have. 

I will have never a noble. 

No lineage counted great; 

Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 
Shall constitute a state. 

Go, cut down trees in the forest 
And trim the straightest boughs; 

Cut down trees in the forest 
And build me a wooden house. 

Call the people together, 

The young men and the sires, 

The digger in the harvest field. 
Hireling and him that hires; 

40 5 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


And here in a pine state-house 
They shall choose men to rule 
In every needful faculty, 

In church and state and school. 

Lo, now! if these poor men 
Can govern the land and sea 
And make just laws below the sun, 

As planets faithful be. 

And ye shall succor men; 

’T is nobleness to serve : 

Help them who cannot help again: 
Beware from right to swerve. 

I break your bonds and masterships, 
And I unchain the slave: 

Free be his heart and hand henceforth 
As wind and wandering wave. 

I cause from every creature 
His proper good to flow: 

As much as he is and doeth, 

So much he shall bestow. 

But, laying hands on another 
To coin his labor and sweat. 

He goes in pawn to his victim 
For eternal years in debt. 

To-day unbind the captive, 

So only are ye unbound; 

406 


BOSTON HYMN 


Lift up a people from the dust, 

Trump of their rescue, sound! 

Pay ransom to the owner 
And fill the bag to the brim. 

Who is the owner? The slave is owner, 
And ever was. Pay him. 

O North! give him beauty for rags, 

And honor, O South! for his shame; 
Nevada! coin thy golden crags 
With Freedom’s image and name. 

Up! and the dusky race 
That sat in darkness long, — 

Be swift their feet as antelopes, 

And as behemoth strong. 

Come, East and West and North, 

By races, as snow T -flakes, 

And carry my purpose forth, 

Which neither halts nor shakes. 

My will fulfilled shall be, 

For, in daylight or in dark, 

My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
His way home to the mark. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


407 


POEMS OF OUR COUNTRY 


O SHIP OF STATE! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

’T is of the wave and not the rock : 

’T is but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock and tempest’s roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 
Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


408 


FATHERLAND 


FATHERLAND 

Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 
From wandering on a foreign strand ? 

If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 

For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 

High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 

The wretch, concentred all in self, 

Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 

And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


\ 


LITTLE KINDNESSES 


She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise: 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace. 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

James Russell Lowell. 

PSALM OF LIFE 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID 
TO THE PSALMIST 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 

Life is but an empty dream! — 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

413 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


Art is long and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 

Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o’erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us then, be up and doing. 

With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


414 


THE ELIXIR 


LETTERS 

Every day brings a ship, 

Every ship brings a word; 

Well for those who have no fear. 
Looking seaward well assured 
That the word the vessel brings 
Is the word they wish to hear. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 

THE ELIXIR 

Teach me, my God and King, 

In all things thee to see; 

And what I do in anything, 

To do it as for thee: 

Not rudely, as a beast, 

To run into an action; 

But still to make thee prepossessed, 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glass 
On it may stay his eye; 

Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 

And then the heaven espy. 

All may of thee partake: 

Nothing can be so mean, 

415 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 

Which with this tincture, for thy sake , 

Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant, with this clause, 

Makes drudgery divine: 

Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, 
Makes that, and the action, fine. 

This is the famous stone 
That turneth all to gold; 

For that which God doth touch and own 
Cannot for less be told. 

George Herbert. 


THE BUILDERS 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time; 
Some with massive deeds and great. 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low; 

Each thing in its place is best; 

And what seems but idle show 
Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 

Time is with materials filled; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 
416 


THE BUILDERS 


Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gaps between; 

Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 

Each minute and unseen part; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen; 

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 

With a firm and ample base; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 

And one boundless reach of sky. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


417 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


A FAREWELL 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: 

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 

And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

Oharles Kingsley . 

HONEST POVERTY 

Is there, for honest poverty 

Wha hangs his head, and a’ that ? 

The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a’ that. 

For a’ that, and a’ that: 

Our toils obscure, and a’ that, 

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp. 
The man ’s the gowd for a’ that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden gray, and a* that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man ’s a man for a’ that. 

For sl that, and a’ that, 

Their tinsel show and a’ that; 

418 


HONEST POVERTY 


The honest man though e’er sae poor, 
Is king o’ men for a’ that. 

You see yon birkie ca’d a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that, 

Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He ’s but a coof for a’ that. 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

His riband, star, and a’ that, 

The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a’ that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a’ that; 

But an honest man ’s aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that 
Their dignities, and a’ that, 

The pith o’ sense and pride o’ worth 
Are higher ranks than a’ that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a’ that. 

That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a’ that, 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

It ’s coming yet for a’ that. 

When man to man, the warld o’er, 
Shall brothers be for a’ that. 

Robert Burns. 


419 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


SUPPOSE! 

Suppose, my little lady, 

Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 
Till your eyes and nose are red ? 
And would n’t it be pleasanter 
To treat it as a joke, 

And say you ’re glad ’t was Dolly’s, 
And not your head that broke ? 

Suppose you ’re dressed for walking, 
And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 
Because you scold and frown ? 

And would n’t it be nicer 
For you to smile than pout, 

And so make sunshine in the house 
When there is none without ? 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get, 

Will it make it any easier 
For you to sit and fret ? 

And would n’t it be wiser 
Than waiting, like a dunce, 

To go to work in earnest 
And learn the thing at once ? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 
And some a coach and pair, 

420 


THE BRIDGE 


Will it tire you less while walking 
To say, “It is n’t fair” ? 

And would n’t it be nobler 
To keep your temper sweet, 

And in your heart be thankful 
You can walk upon your feet ? 

And suppose the world don’t please you. 

Nor the way some people do, 

Do you think the whole creation 
Will be altered just for you ? 

And is n’t it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 

Whatever comes, or does n’t come, 

To do the best you can? 

Phoebe Cary. 


THE BRIDGE 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour. 
And the moon rose o’er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 

Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

421 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay. 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 
Rose the belated tide. 

And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh, how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky! 

How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

422 


THE BRIDGE 


But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea; 

And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows. 

As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes, 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 

And its wavering image here. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


423 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


DINNA CHIDE 

Ah! dinna chide the mither! 

Ye may na hae her lang; 

Her voice, abune your baby rest, 

Sae saftly crooned the sang; 

She thocht ye ne’er a burden, 

She greeted ye wi’ joy, 

An’ heart an’ hand in carin’ ye, 
Foun’ still their dear employ. 

Her han’ has lost its cunnin’, 

It’s tremblin’ now and slow, 

But her heart is leal an’ lovin’. 

As it was lang ago! 

An’ though her strength may wither. 
An’ faint her pulses beat, 

Nane will be like the mither, 

Sae steadfast, true, an’ sweet! 

Ye maun revere the mither, 

Feeble an’ auld an’ gray; 

The shinin’ ones are helpin’ her 
Adoon her evenin’ way! 

Her bairns wha wait her yonder, 

Her gude mon gone before: 

She wearies — can ye wonder ? — 

To win to that braw shore! 

Ah! dinna chide the mither! 

O lip, be slow to say 
424 


THE HERITAGE 


A word to vex the gentle heart 

Wha watched your childhood’s day; 

Ay, rin to heed the tender voice 
Wha crooned the cradle sang, 

An’ dinna chide the mither, sin’ 

Ye may na hae her lang! 

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster. 


THE HERITAGE 

The rich man’s son inherits lands. 

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
And he inherits soft white hands, 

And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old: 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits cares; 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 
A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
And soft white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn: 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits wants; 

His stomach craves for dainty fare; 
With sated heart, he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
425 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


And wearies in his easy-chair: 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil- won merit, 
Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

A patience learned of being poor, 
Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it, 

A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man’s son ! there is a toil 
That with all others level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

426 


A THANKSGIVING TO GOD 


But only whiten, soft white hands, — 

This is the best crop from thy lands; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

O poor man’s son ! scorn not thy state ; 

There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great; 

Toil only gives the soul to shine, 

And makes rest fragrant and benign; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 

Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 

Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-filled past; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

James Russell Lowell. 

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR 
HIS HOUSE 

Lord, thou hast given me a cell, 

Wherein to dwell; 

A little house, whose humble roof 
Is weather proof; 

Under the spars of which I lie 
Both soft and dry; 

427 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 
Hast set a guard 

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
Me, while I sleep. 

Low is my porch, as is my fate; 

Both void of state; 

And yet the threshold of my door 
Is worn by th’ poor, 

Who thither come, and freely get 
Good words, or meat. 

Like as my parlor, so my hall 
And kitchen ’s small ; 

A little buttery, and therein 
A little bin. 

Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
Unchipt, unflead; 

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 
Make me a fire, 

Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 

Lord, I confess too, when I dine, 

The pulse is thine, 

And all those other bits that be 
There placed by thee; 

The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
Of water-cress, 

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; 
And my content 

Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 


428 


ON HIS BLINDNESS 


*T is thou that crown’st my glittering hearth 
With guiltless mirth, 

And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink, 

Spiced to the brink. 

Lord, ’t is thy plenty-dropping hand 
That soils my land, 

And giv’st me, for my bushel sown, 

Twice ten for one; 

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay 
Her egg each day; 

Besides, my healthful ewes to bear 
Me twins each year; 

The while the conduits of my kine 
Run cream, for wine: 

All these, and better, thou dost send 
Me, to this end, — 

That I should render, for my part, 

A thankful heart; 

Which, fired with incense, I resign, 

As wholly thine; 

— But the acceptance, that must be, 

My Christ, by thee. 

Robert Herrick. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent, 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 


429 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide; 

“ Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? ” 

I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, “ God doth not need 
Either man’s work, or his own gifts; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o’er land and ocean without rest; 

They also serve who only stand and wait.” 

John Milton. 


THE CONQUEROR’S GRAVE 

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, 

And yet the monument proclaims it not, 

Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought 
The emblems of a fame that never dies, — 

Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, 

Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf. 

A simple name alone, 

To the great world unknown, 

Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round, 

Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, 

Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
No man of iron mould and bloody hands, 

Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 
430 

































THE CONQUEROR’S GRAVE 

The passions that consumed his restless heart; 

But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, 

Gentlest, in mien and mind, 

Of gentle womankind, 

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame: 

One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 
Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, 
Yet, at the thought of others’ pain, a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with 
fear, 

And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East — 

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture’s feast. 

Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave; 

Alone her task was wrought, 

Alone the battle fought; 

Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look 

That altered not beneath the frown they wore, 

And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took 
Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. 

Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, 

And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain, 

431 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


And rent the nets of passion from her path. 

By that victorious hand despair was slain. 

With love she vanquished hate and overcame 
Evil with good, in her Great Master’s name. 

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies; 

But when she entered at the sapphire gate 
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! 

How heaven’s bright depths with sounding welcomes 
rung, 

And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! 
And He who, long before. 

Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 

The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, 

Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; 

He who returning, glorious, from the grave. 

Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; 

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. 

Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go 

Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. 

Brief is the time, I know, 

The warfare scarce begun; 

Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. 

Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee. 
The victors’ names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven’s mighty roll; the glorious armory, 

That ministered to thee, is open still. 

William Cullen Bryant. 
432 


THE UNKNOWN COUNTRY 


THE UNKNOWN COUNTRY 

“ Where is the unknown country ? ” 

I whispered sad and slow — 

“The strange and awful country 

To which I soon must go, must go. 

To which I soon must go ? ” 

Out of the unknown country 
A voice sang soft and low, 

“ Oh, pleasant is that country, 

And sweet it is to go, to go, 

And sweet it is to go. 

“Along the shining country 
The peaceful rivers flow: 

And in that wondrous country 
The tree of life does grow, does grow, 

The tree of life does grow.” 

Ah, then into that country 
Of which I nothing know, 

The everlasting country, 

With willing heart I go, I go, 

With willing heart I go. 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 


433 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 

Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care, 

434 


ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 


No children run to lisp their sire’s return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave. 
Await alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 

435 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation’s eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

43.6 


ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 


Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e’en those bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply; 

And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: 

" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 

437 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by 

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 
Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

“One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

“The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow thro’ the church- way path we saw him borne. 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 


THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: 

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 

And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear; 

He gained from heaven (’t was all he wished) a friend 
438 


THE NOBLE NATURE 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 

GROW OLD ALONG WITH ME 

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made; 

Our times are in his hand 
Who saith, “A whole I planned, 

Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be afraid ! ” 

Robert Browning. 

4 

THE NOBLE NATURE 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make man better be; 

Or standing long an oak three hundred year, 

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; 

A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 

Although it fall and die that night — 

It was the plant and flower of Light. 

In small proportions we just beauty see; 

And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson. 


439 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


OPPORTUNITY 

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: — 

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; 

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords 
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner 
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. 
A craven hung along the battle’s edge, 

And thought, “ Had I a sword of keener steel — 

That blue blade that the king’s son bears — but this 
Blunt thing — !” he snapt and flung it from his hand, 
And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead, 

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, 
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout 
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, 

And saved a great cause that heroic day. 

Edward Rowland Sill. 

TO A CHILD 

Small service is true service while it lasts : 

Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one: 
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts. 

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 

William Wordsworth. 


440 


MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND 


“MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND” 

Father, I know that all my life 
Is portioned out for me; 

And the changes that are sure to come, 

I do not fear to see; 

But I ask Thee for a present mind, 

Intent on pleasing Thee. 

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, 

Through constant watching wise. 

To meet the glad with joyful smiles 
And to wipe the weeping eyes, 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 

To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 
That hurries to and fro, 

Seeking for some great thing to do, 

Or secret thing to know; 

I would be dealt with as a child, 

And guided where to go. 

Wherever in the world I am, 

In whatsoe’er estate, 

I have a fellowship with hearts, 

To keep and cultivate; 

And a work of holy love to do 

For the Lord on whom I wait. 

441 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


I ask Thee for the daily strength, 

To none that ask denied; 

And a mind to blend with outward life, 
While keeping at Thy side; 

Content to fill a little space, 

If Thou be glorified. 

And if some things I do not ask 
In my cup of blessing be, 

I would have my spirit filled the more 
With grateful love to Thee — 

More careful, not to serve Thee much, 

But please Thee perfectly. 

There are briers besetting every path, 

That call for patient care; 

There is a cross in every lot, 

And a need for earnest prayer; 

But a lowly heart that leans on Thee 
Is happy everywhere. 

In a service that Thy love appoints, 

There are no bonds for me, 

For my secret heart is taught the truth 
That makes Thy children free; 

And a life of self-renouncing love 
Is a life of liberty. 

Anna Laetitia Waring. 


442 


THANATOPSIS 


THANATOPSIS 

(Written in the poet’s eighteenth year.) 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice — 


Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
443 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 

444 


THANATOPSIS 


And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


445 


POEMS TO THINK ABOUT 


THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, 

Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 

446 


SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK 


Cast from her lap, forlorn! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK 

Let nothing disturb thee, 

Nothing affright thee; 

All things are passing; 

God never changeth. 

Patient endurance 
Attaineth to all things; 

Who God possesseth 
In nothing is wanting; 

Alone God suflSceth. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


447 



OTHER POEMS 


















4 





BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 


Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day’s renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark’s crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand. 

And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on, — 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line; 

It was ten of April morn by the chime: 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rushed 
O’er the deadly space between. 

“Hearts of oak,” our captains cried; when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
451 


OTHER POEMS 


Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o’er the wave, 

“Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — - 
So peace instead of death let us bring. 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England’s feet, 

And make submission meet 
To our king.” 

Then Denmark blest our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day; 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O’er a wide and woful sight, 

452 


THE SELKIRK GRACE 


Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise! 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities’ blaze, 

While the wine cup shines in light; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep, 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride 
Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died, — 

With the gallant good Riou: 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave! 
While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid’s song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave! 

Thomas Campbell 


THE SELKIRK GRACE 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 

And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 

Sae let the Lord be thankit. 

Robert Burns. 


453 


OTHER POEMS 


THE MOUNTAIN AND THE 
SQUIRREL 

The mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel. 

And the former called the latter “ Little prig ! ” 
Bunn replied, 

“You are doubtless very big, 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together 
To make up a year, 

And a sphere: 

And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I ’m not so large as you. 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry; 

I ’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track. 

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; 

If I cannot carry forests on my back, 

Neither can you crack a nut.” 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 


FIRELIGHT 

Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
454 













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THE HOUSE AND THE ROAD 


In baffled rage at pane and door, 

While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 

And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 

The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed; 
The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 

The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall; 

And, for the winter fireside meet. 

Between the andirons’ straddling feet, 

The mug of cider simmered slow, 

The apples sputtered in a row, 

And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October’s wood. 

John G. Whittier. 

THE HOUSE AND THE ROAD 

The little Road says Go, 

The little House says Stay: 

And oh, it ’s bonny here at home, 

But I must go away. 

The little Road like me. 

Would seek and turn and know; 

And forth I must, to learn the things 
The little Road would show! 

455 


OTHER POEMS 


And go I must, my dears, 

And journey while I may, 

Though heart be sore for the little House 
That had no word but Stay. 

Maybe, no other way 

Your child could ever know 

Why a little House would have you stay. 

When a little Road says, Go. 

Josephine Preston Peabody . 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face. 
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow 
456 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 


Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter’s voice, 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, 
Singing in Paradise! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 


457 


OTHER POEMS 


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


THE WANTS OF MAN 

“ Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.” 

’T is not with me exactly so; 

But ’t is so in the song. 

My wants are many, and, if told, 

Would muster many a score; 

And were each wish a mint of gold, 

I still should long for more. 

What first I want is daily bread — 

And canvas-backs — and wine — 

And all the realms of nature spread 
Before me, when I dine. 

Four courses scarcely can provide 
My appetite to quell; 

With four choice cooks from France beside 
To dress my dinner well. 

What next I want, at princely cost, 

Is elegant attire: 


458 


THE WANTS OF MAN 


Black sable furs for winter’s frost, 

And silks for summer’s fire. 

And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace 
My bosom’s front to deck, — 

And diamond rings my hands to grace, 
And rubies for my neck. 

I want (who does not want) a wife — 
Affectionate and fair; 

To solace all the woes of life, 

And all its joys to share. 

Of temper sweet, of yielding will, 

Of firm yet placid mind, — 

With all my faults to love me still 
With sentiment refined. 

And as Time’s car incessant runs, 

And fortune fills my store, 

I want of daughters and of sons 
From eight to half a score. 

I want (alas! can mortal dare 
Such bliss on earth to crave?) 

That all the girls be chaste and fair, 
The boys all wise and brave. 

I want a warm and faithful friend, 

To cheer the adverse hour; 

Who ne’er to flattery will descend, 

Nor bend the knee to power, — 

A friend to chide me when I ’m wrong, 
My inmost soul to see; 

459 


OTHER POEMS 


And that my friendship prove as strong 
For him as his for me. 

I want the seals of power and place, 

The ensigns of command; 

Charged by the People’s unbought grace 
To rule my native land. 

Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask, 

But from my country’s will, 

By day, by night, to ply the task 
Her cup of bliss to fill. 

I want the voice of honest praise 
To follow me behind, 

And to be thought in future days 
The friend of human kind, 

That after ages, as they rise, 

Exulting may proclaim 
In choral union to the skies 
Their blessings on my name. 

These are the wants of mortal man , 

I cannot want them long; 

For life itself is but a span, 

And earthly bliss — a song. 

My last great want , absorbing all, 

Is, when beneath the sod, 

And summoned to my final call, 

The “mercy of my God.” 

John Quincy Adams . 


460 


CONTENTMENT 


CONTENTMENT 

Man wants but little here below.” 

Little I ask; my wants are few; 

I only wish a hut of stone 
(A very plain brown stone will do) 

That I may call my own; 

And close at hand is such a one. 

In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — 

If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen! 

I always thought cold victual nice ; — 

My choice would be vanilla ice. 

I care not much for gold or land ; — 

Give me a mortgage here and there, — 
Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, 
Or trifling railroad share ; — 

I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know. 

And titles are but empty names ; — 

I would, perhaps , be Plenipo, — 

But only near St. James ; — 

I ’m very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubernator’s chair. 

461 


OTHER POEMS 


Jewels are baubles ; ’t is a sin 
To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 
Some, not so large , in rings, — 

A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 

Will do for me, — I laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap attire 
(Good, heavy silks are never dear); 

I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 

Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 
So fast that folks must stop and stare; 
An easy gait — two, forty-five — 

Suits me; I do not care, — 

Perhaps, for just a single spurt , 

Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 
Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
I love so much their style and tone, — 
One Turner, and no more 
(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt ; 
The sunshine painted with a squirt). 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear; 
The rest upon an upper floor, — 

Some little luxury there 
462 


FARMER JOHN 


Of red morocco’s gilded gleam, 

And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 
Which others often show for pride, 

I value for their power to please, 

And selfish churls deride; 

One Stradivarius, I confess, 

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn. 

Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; — 

Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 

But all must be of buhl ? 

Give grasping pomp its double share, — 

I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die, 

Nor long for Midas’ golden touch, 

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 

I shall not miss them much , — 

Too grateful for the blessing lent 
Of simple tastes and mind content! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

FARMER JOHN 

Home from his journey Farmer John 
Arrived this morning, safe and sound. 

His black coat off, and his old clothes on, 

“ Now I ’m myself!” says Farmer John; 

463 


OTHER POEMS 


And he thinks, “I ’ll look around.” 

Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup! 

Are you so glad you would eat me up ? ” 

The old cow lows at the gate, to greet him; 
The horses prick up their ears, to meet him: 
“Well, well, old Bay! 

Ha, ha, old Gray! 

Do you get good feed when I am away ? 

“You haven’t a rib!” says Farmer John; 

“The cattle are looking round and sleek; 
The colt is going to be a roan, 

And a beauty too: how he has grown! 

We ’ll wean the calf next week.” 

Says Farmer John, “ When I ’ve been off, 

To call you again about the trough. 

And watch you, and pet you, while you drink, 
Is a greater comfort than you can think!” 

And he pats old Bay, 

And he slaps old Gray; — 

“Ah, this is the comfort of going away! 

“For, after all,” says Farmer John, 

“The best of a journey is getting home. 

I ’ve seen great sights; but would I give 
This spot, and the peaceful life I live, 

For all their Paris and Rome ? 

These hills for the city’s stifled air. 

And big hotels all bustle and glare, 

Land all houses, and roads all stones. 


464 


FARMER JOHN 


That deafen your ears and batter your bones ? 
Would you, old Bay ? 

Would you, old Gray ? 

That ’s what one gets by going away ! 

“There Money is king,” says Farmer John; 

“And Fashion is queen; and it ’s mighty queer 
To see how sometimes, while the man 
Is raking and scraping all he can, 

The wife spends, every year, 

Enough, you would think, for a score of wives, 
To keep them in luxury all their lives! 

The town is a perfect Babylon 
To a quiet chap,” says Farmer John. 

“ You see, old Bay, — 

You see, old Gray, — 

I ’m wiser than when I went away. 

“ I ’ve found out this,” says Farmer John, — 
“That happiness is not bought and sold, 

And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, 

In nights of pleasure and days of worry; 

And wealth is n’t all in gold, — 

Mortgage and stocks and ten per cent, — 

But in simple ways, and sweet content, 

Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends, 

Some land to till, and a few good friends, 
r Like you, old Bay, 

And you, old Gray! 

That ’s what I ’ve learned by going away.” 


465 


OTHER POEMS 


And a happy man is Farmer John, — 

Oh, a rich and happy man is he! 

He sees the peas and pumpkins growing, 

The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing, 

And fruit on vine and tree; 

The large, kind oxen look their thanks 

As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks; 

The doves light round him, and strut and coo. 

Says Farmer John, “I ’ll take you too, — 

And you, old Bay, 

And you, old Gray, 

Next time I travel so far away!” 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 


DOROTHY Q. 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT 

Grandmother’s mother; her age, I guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less; 

Girlish bust, but womanly air, 

Smooth, square forehead, with uprolled hair, 
Lips that lover has never kissed, 

Taper fingers and slender wrist, 

Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade — 

So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene; 

Hold up the canvas in full view — 

Look ! there ’s a rent the light shines through, 
466 


DOROTHY Q. 

Dark with a century’s fringe of dust, — 
That was a Red-Coat’s rapier-thrust ! 

Such is the tale the lady old, 

Dorothy’s daughter’s daughter, told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well; 

Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 

Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white; 

And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born! 

Ay! since the galloping Normans came, 
England’s annals have known her name; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name’s renown, 

For many a civic wreath they won, 

The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. 

O damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q. ! 

Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 

Such a gift as never a king 

Save to daughter or son might bring — 

All my tenure of heart and hand, 

All my title to house and land; 

Mother and sister, and child and wife, 
And joy and sorrow, and death and life! 
467 


OTHER POEMS 


What if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered, No, 

When forth the tremulous question came 
That cost the maiden her Norman name; 

And under the folds that look so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill ? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One tenth another to nine tenths me ? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden’s Yes: 

Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 

But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and blast, 

And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so long! 

There were tones in the voice that whispered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred men ! 

0 lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, and here we are, 

Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward’s and Dorothy’s — all their own — 

A goodly record for time to show 

Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 

Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive, 

For the tender whisper that bade me live ? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat’s blade, 
And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, 
And gild with a rhyme your household name, 

468 


THE FAIRIES 


So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
As first you greeted the morning’s light, 

And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Through a second youth of a hundred years. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes . 


THE FAIRIES 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We dare n’t go a-hunting 
For fear of little men; 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl’s feather! 

Down along the rocky shore 
Some make their home: 

They live on crispy pancakes 
Of yellow tide-foam; 

Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain lake, 

With frogs for their watch-dogs, 
All night awake. 

High on the hilltop 
The old king sits; 

He is now so old and gray, 

He ’s nigh lost his wits. 

469 


OTHER POEMS 


With a bridge of white mist 
Columbkill he crosses, 

On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleague to Rosses; 

Or going up with music 
On cold starry nights, 

To sup with the queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long; 

When she came down again, 

Her friends were all gone. 

They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow; 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 
But she was dead with sorrow. 

They have kept her ever since 
Deep within the lakes, 

On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hillside, 

Through the mosses bare, 

They have planted thorn-trees 
For pleasure here and there. 

Is any man so daring 
As dig them up in spite, 

He shall find their sharpest thorns 
In his bed at night. 

470 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 


Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We dare n’t go a-hunting 
For fear of little men; 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl’s feather! 

William Allingham. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns ! ” he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade!” 

Was there a man dismay’d ? 

Not tho’ the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder’d: 

Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die: 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

471 


OTHER POEMS 


Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 
Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flash’d all their sabres bare, 
Flash’d as they turn’d in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder’d: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro’ the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d and sunder’d. 

Then they rode back, but not, 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 
Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 
Came thro’ the jaws of Death, 
472 


ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 


Back from the mouth of Hell, 

All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 

Honor the charge they made! 

Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL 
GEORGE 

Toll for the brave — 

The brave that are no more! 

All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 

Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 

And laid her on her side. 

A land breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset: 

Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

473 


OTHER POEMS 


Toll for the brave! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 

His last sea-fight is fought, 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 

She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen, 

When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again, 

Full charged with England’s thunder, 
And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, — 

His victories are o’er; 

And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the waves no more. 

William Cowper. 


474 


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O’er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, 
And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they ’ll talk of the spirit that ’s gone, 

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him; 

But little he ’ll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

475 


OTHER POEMS 


But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 
And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone. 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 

HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 

And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 

Each horseman drew his battle blade, 

And furious every charger neighed, 

To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 

And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

476 


HELVELLYN 


But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden’s hills of stained snow, 

And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

’T is morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 

Who rush to glory, or the grave! 

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! 

And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Ah! few shall part where many meet! 

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 

And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 

HELVELLYN 

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and 
wide; 

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
And starting around me the echoes replied. 

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bend- 
ing, 

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, 

477 


OTHER POEMS 


One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had 
died. 

Dark green was that spot ’mid the brown mountain 
heather, 

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, 
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 

For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, 

The much-loved remains of her master defended, 

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou 
start ? 

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
And, oh, was it meet, that, no requiem read o’er him, — 
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 

And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, — 
Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart ? 

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, 

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are 
gleaming ; 

In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming; 
478 


THE BURIAL OF MOSES 


Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, 
Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, 

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, 
When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, 
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 

With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, 

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. 

Sir Walter Scott. 


THE BURIAL OF MOSES 

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against 
Beth-peor ; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day. — 
Deut. xxxiv, 6. 

By Nebo’s lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan’s wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave; 

But no man built that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e’er; 

For the angels of God upturned the sod, 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 
That ever passed on earth; 

Yet no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth: 

479 


OTHER POEMS 


Noiselessly as the daylight 
Comes when the night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek 
Grows into the great sun; 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Unfold their thousand leaves: 

So without sound of music 
Or voice of them that wept, 

Silently down from the mountain’s crown 
The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 
On gray Beth-peor’s height 
Out of his rocky eyry 
Looked on the wondrous sight; 

Perchance the lion stalking 
Still shuns that hallowed spot; 

For beast and bird have seen and heard 
That which man knoweth not. 

But, when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades of the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled drums, 
Follow the funeral car: 

They show the banners taken; 

They tell his battles won. 

And after him lead his masterless steed, 
While peals the minute-gun. 

480 


THE BURIAL OF MOSES 


Amid the noblest of the land 
Men lay the sage to rest, 

And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marbles drest, 

In the great minster transept 
Where lights like glories fall. 

And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 
Along the emblazoned hall. 

This was the bravest warrior 
That ever buckled sword; 

This the most gifted poet 
That ever breathed a word; 

And never earth’s philosopher 
Traced with his golden pen, 

On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hillside for his pall ! 

To lie in state while angels wait 
With stars for tapers tall ! 

And the dark rock pines like tossing plumes 
Over his bier to wave, 

And God’s own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in his grave ! — 

In that deep grave without a name, 

Whence his uncoffined clay 

Shall break again — oh wondrous thought ! — 

Before the judgment-day, 

481 , 


OTHER POEMS 


And stand, with glory wrapped around. 

On the hills he never trod, 

And speak of the strife that won our life 
With the incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely tomb in Moab’s land! 

O dark Beth-peor’s hill ! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 

And teach them to be still: 

God hath his mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell, 

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
Of him he loved so well. 

Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander . 


VERSES 

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary 
abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez. 

I am monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute; 

From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

0 Solitude! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity’s reach, 

I must finish my journey alone, 

482 


VERSES OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK 

Never hear the sweet music of speech, — 

I start at the sound of my own. 

The beasts that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see; 

They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow’d upon man, 

Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 

My sorrows I then might assuage 
In the ways of religion and truth, 

Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth. 

Religion! what treasure untold 
Resides in that heavenly word! 

More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford: 

But the sound of the church-going bell 
These valleys and rocks never heard, 

Never sigh’d at the sound of a knell, 

Or smil’d when a Sabbath appear’d. 

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 
Of a land I shall visit no more. 

My friends, do they now and then send 
A wish or a thought after me ? 

483 


OTHER POEMS 


Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 

The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 

When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there: 

But alas! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 

The beast is laid down in his lair; 

Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 

There’s mercy in every place, 

And mercy, encouraging thought! 

Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

William Cowper. 

WATERLOO 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium’s capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
484 


WATERLOO 


And all went merry as a marriage bell; 

But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? — No; ’t was but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o’er the stony street: 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet, 

But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat, 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon’s opening roar ! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain: he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with death’s prophetic ear; 

And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne’er might be repeated : who could guess 


485 


OTHER POEMS 


If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips, “ The foe ! They come ! 
they come!” 

George Gordon , Lord Byron. 

THE BELLS 

i 

Hear the sledges with the bells, 

Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 


486 


THE BELLS 


From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
ii 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 

Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 

How it swells! 

How it dwells 
On the Future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

hi 

Hear the loud alarum bells, 

Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
487 


OTHER POEMS 


In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 

Too much horrified to speak. 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, 

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 

With a desperate desire, 

And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 

What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 

Yet the ear it fully knows, 

By the twanging 
And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, — 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells. 
Of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

488 


THE BELLS 


IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells, 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
pels! 

In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 

For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people — ah, the people, 

They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 

Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 

They are neither man nor woman, 

They are neither brute nor human, 

They are Ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls 

A paean from the bells; 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells, 

And he dances, and he yells: 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

489 


OTHER POEMS 


To the paean of the bells, 

Of the bells: 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells: 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 


THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 

Come, see the Dolphin’s anchor forged, — ’t is at a 
white heat now : 

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though on the 
forge’s brow 

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable 
mound, 

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking 
round, 

All clad in leather panoply, their broad hands only 
bare, — 


490 


THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the wind- 
lass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound 
heaves below, 

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every 
throe : 

It rises, roars, rends all outright, — O Vulcan, what a 
glow ! 

*T is blinding white, ’t is blasting bright, — the high sun 
shines not so! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery fearful 
show, — 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy 
lurid row 

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before 
the foe. 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing 
monster, slow 

Sinks on the anvil, all about the faces fiery grow. 

“Hurrah!” they shout, “leap out — leap out;” bang, 
bang, the sledges go; 

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders 
strew 

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering foun- 
tains flow, 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke 
pant “Ho!” 


491 


OTHER POEMS 


Leap out, leap out, my masters, leap out, and lay on load ! 

Let ’s forge a goodly anchor, a bower thick and broad ; 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road, — 

The low reef roaring on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the 
board ; 

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at 
the chains! 

But courage still, brave mariners ! the bower yet remains, 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch 
sky high; 

Then moves his head, as though he said, “ Fear nothing 
— here am I.” 

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep 
time: 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple’s 
chime. 

But while you sling your sledges, sing, — and let the 
burden be, 

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! 

Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their 
rustling red; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon 
be sped. 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of 
clay; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- 
men here, 


492 


THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 

For the yeo-heave-o’, and the heave-away, and the sigh- 
ing seaman’s cheer; 

When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love 
and home; 

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o’er the ocean 
foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; 

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e’er from cat was 
cast. 

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like 
me, 

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the 
deep green sea! 

O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights 
as thou ? 

The hoary monster’s palaces! methinks what joy 
’t were now 

To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the 
whales, 

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their 
scourging tails! 

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
unicom, 

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory 
horn; 

To leave the subtile sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn; 

And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to 
scorn; 

To leap down on the kraken’s back, where ’mid Nor- 
wegian isles 


493 


OTHER POEMS 


He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles; 

Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished 
shoals 

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply in a cove, 

Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine’s 
love, 

To find the long-haired maidens; or, hard by icy 
lands, 

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can 
equal thine ? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy 
cable line; 

And night by night, ’t is thy delight, thy glory day by 
day, 

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game 
to play — 

But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I 
gave: 

A fisher’s joy is to destroy, — thine office is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king’s halls! couldst thou but un- 
derstand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, — or who that 
dripping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee 
bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their 
ancient friend, — 


494 


THE LAST LEAF 


Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger 
steps round thee, 

Thine iron side would swell with pride, — thou’dst leap 
within the sea! 


Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant 
strand 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of father- 
land, — 


Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church- 
yard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly 
sung, 

Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes 
among ! 


Samuel Ferguson. 


THE LAST LEAF 

I saw him once before, 

As he passed by the door, 

And again 

The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o’er the ground 
With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
Cut him down, 

495 


OTHER POEMS 


Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 
Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets. 

And he looks at all he meets 
Sad and wan, 

And he shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

“They are gone.” 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has prest 
In their bloom, 

And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 

Poor old lady, she is dead 
Long ago — 

That he had a Roman nose, 

And his cheek was like a rose 
In the snow; 

But now his nose is tljin, 

And it rests upon his chin 
Like a staff, 

And a crook is in his back. 

And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

496 


THE COURTIN’ 


I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 
At him here; 

But the old three-cornered hat, 

And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 
In the spring, 

Let them smile, as I do now, 

At the old forsaken bough 
Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

THE COURTIN’ 

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still 
Fur ’z you can look or listen, 

Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, 

All silence an’ all glisten. 

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown 
An’ peeked in thru the winder, 

An’ there sot Huldy all alone, 

’ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room’s one side 
With half a cord o’ wood in — 

There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) 

To bake ye to a puddin’ 

497 


OTHER POEMS 


The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An’ leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbly crook-necks hung, 

An’ in amongst ’em rusted 

The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young 
Fetched back f’om Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 

Seemed warm f’om floor to ceilin’, 

An’ she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin’. 

’T was kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look 
On sech a blessed cretur; 

A dogrose blushin’ to a brook 
Ain’t modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o’ man, A 1, 

Clear grit an’ human natur’ ; 

None could n’t quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He ’d sparked it with full twenty gals, 

He ’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, 

Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells — 

All is, he could n’t love ’em. 

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple; 

498 







































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































THE COURTIN’ 


The side she breshed felt full o’ sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap’il. 

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing 
Ez hisn in the choir; 

My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 
She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An’ she ’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin’-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O’ blue eyes sot upun it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 
She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul, 

For she felt sartin-sure he ’d come, 
Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, 
A-raspin’ on the scraper, — 

All ways to once her feelins flew 
Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o’ the sekle; 

His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An’ on her apples kep’ to work, 

Parin’ away like murder. 

499 


OTHER POEMS 


“ You want to see my Pa, I s’pose ? ” 

“ Wal ... no ... I come dasignin’ ” — 
“To see my Ma ? She ’s sprinklin’ clo’es 
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; 

Mebby to mean yes an’ say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t ’other, 

An’ on which one he felt the wust 
He could n’t ha’ told ye nuther. 

Says he, “ I ’d better call agin ; ” 

Says she, “Think likely, Mister;” 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An’ . . . Wal, he up an’ kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 

All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips 
An’ teary roun’ the lashes. 

For she was jes’ the quiet kind 
Whose naturs never vary, 

Like streams that keep a summer mind 
Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood dost roun’ her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin’, 

500 


THE CHARCOALMAN 


Tell mother see how metters stood, 

An’ gin ’em both her blessin’. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, 

An’ all I know is they was cried 
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday. 

James Russell Lowell . 


THE CHARCOALMAN 

Though rudely blows the wintry blast, 

And sifting snows fall white and fast, 

Mark Haley drives along the street, 

Perched high upon his wagon seat; 

His sombre face the storm defies, 

And thus from morn till eve he cries, 

“ Charco’ ! charco’ ! ” 

While echo faint and far replies, 

“Hark, oh! hark, oh!” 

“ Charco’ ! ” — “ Hark, oh ! ” — Such cheery sounds 
Attend him on his daily rounds. 

The dust begrimes his ancient hat; 

His coat is darker far than that; 

’T is odd to see his sooty form 
All speckled with the feathery storm; 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

Nor spot nor speck, though still he cries, 

“ Charco’ ! charco’ ! ” 

501 


OTHER POEMS 


While many a roguish lad replies, 

“Ark, ho! ark, ho!” 

“ Charco’ ! ” — “ Ark, ho ! ” — Such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley’s morning rounds. 

Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labors much for little pay; 

Yet feels no less of happiness 
Than many a richer man, I guess, 

When through the shades of eve he spies 
The light of his own home, and cries, 

“ Charco’ ! charco’ ! ” 

And Martha from the door replies, 

“Mark, ho! Mark, ho!” 

“ Charco’ ! ” — “ Mark, ho ! ” — Such joy abounds 
When he has closed his daily rounds! 

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; 

And while his hand, washed clean and white. 
Holds Martha’s tender hand once more, 

His glowing face bends fondly o’er 
The crib wherein his darling lies, 

And in a coaxing tone he cries, 

“ Charco’ ! charco’ ! ” 

And baby with a laugh replies, 

“Ah, go! ah, go!” 

“ Charco’ !” — “Ah, go!” — while at the sounds 
The mother’s heart with gladness bounds. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 


502 


MY TENANTS 


MY TENANTS 

I never had a title-deed 
To my estate. But little heed 
Eyes give to me, when I walk by 
My fields, to see who occupy. 

Some clumsy men who lease and hire 
And cut my trees to feed their fire, 

Own all the land that I possess. 

And tax my tenants to distress ; 

And if I said I had been first, 

And, reaping, left for them the worst, 

That they were beggars at the hands 
Of dwellers on my royal lands, 

With idle laugh of passing scorn 
As unto words of madness born, 

They would reply. 

I do not care; 

They cannot crowd the charmed air; 

They cannot touch the bonds I hold 
On all that they have bought and sold. 
They can waylay my faithful bees, 

Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease, 

Are robbed. Is one day’s honey sweet 
Thus snatched ? All summer round my feet 
In golden drifts from plumy wings, 

In shining drops on fragrant things, 

Free gift, it came to me. My corn, 

With burnished banners, morn by morn. 
Comes out to meet and honor me; 

503 


OTHER POEMS 


The glittering ranks spread royally 
Far as I walk. When hasty greed 
Tramples it down for food and seed, 

I, with a certain veiled delight, 

Hear half the crop is lost by blight. 

Letter of law these may fulfill, 

Plant where they like, slay what they will, 
Count up their gains and make them great; 
Nevertheless, the whole estate 
Always belongs to me and mine. 

We are the only royal line, 

And though I have no title-deed, 

My tenants pay me loyal heed, 

When our sweet fields I wander by 
To see what strangers occupy. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

GUILIE LMU S REX 

The folk who lived in Shakespeare’s day 
And saw that gentle figure pass 
By London Bridge, his frequent way — 

They little knew what man he was. 

The pointed beard, the courteous mien, 

The equal port to high and low, 

All this they saw or might have seen — 

But not the light behind the brow! 

The doublet’s modest gray or brown, 

The slender sword-hilt’s plain device, 

504 


THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE 


What sign had these for prince or clown ? 
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. 

Yet ’t was the king of England’s kings ! 

The rest with all their pomps and trains 
Are mouldered, half -remembered things — 

’T is he alone that lives and reigns ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE 

i 

’T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 

Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; 

His form was bent, and his gait was slow. 

His long, thin hair was as white as snow, 

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; 

And he sang every night as he went to bed, 

“Let us be happy down here below; 

The living should live, though the dead be dead,” 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

ii 

He taught his scholars the rule of three. 

Writing, and reading, and history, too; 

He took the little ones up on his knee, 

For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 

And the wants of the littlest child he knew. 

“ Learn while you ’re young,” he often said, 
“There is much to enjoy, down here below; 

505 


OTHER POEMS 


Life for the living, and rest for the dead!” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

in 

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 
Speaking only in gentlest tones; 

The rod was hardly known in his school — 
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, 

And too hard work for his poor old bones; 
Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said: 

“ We should make life pleasant, down here below, 
The living need charity more than the dead,” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

IV 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door; 

His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, 

But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 

And made him forget he was old and poor; 

“I need so little,” he often said; 

“And my friends and relatives here below 
Won’t litigate over me when I am dead,” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

v 

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 

Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 

With his chair tipped back to a neighbor’s wall, 
Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass: 

506 


THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE 


This was the finest pleasure, he said, 

Of the many he tasted, here below; 

“Who has no cronies, had better be dead!” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

VI 

Then the jolly old pedagogue’s wrinkled face 
Melted all over in sunshiny smileg; 

He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 

Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles; 

“I’m a pretty old man,” he gently said, 

“I have lingered a long while, here below; 

But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

VII 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 

While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
Leaving its tenderest kisses there, 

On the jolly old pedagogue’s jolly old crown: 
And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 

’T was a glorious world, down here below; 

“ Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? ” 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

VIII 

He sat at his door, one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 

And the lingering beams of golden light 

507 


OTHER POEMS 


Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 
While the odorous night-wind whispered, “Rest!” 
Gently, gently, he bowed his head — 

There were angels waiting for him, I know, 

He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago! 

George Arnold. 


THE SHANDON BELLS 

Sabbata pango; 

Funera plango; 

Solemnia clango. 

Inscription on an Old Bell. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 

Whose sounds so wild would. 

In the days of childhood, 

Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where’er I wander, 

And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, 

With thy bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

508 


THE SHANDON BELLS 


I ’ve heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 

Toiling sublime in 
Cathedral shrine, 

While at a glibe rate 

Brass tongues would vibrate — 

But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine; 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 
Its bold notes free, 

Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I ’ve heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian’s Mole in, 

Their thunder rolling 
From the Vatican, 

And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame; 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o’er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly: 

Oh! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
509 


OTHER POEMS 


The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

There ’s a bell in Moscow; 

While on tower and kiosk oh! 

In Saint Sophia 
The Turkman gets. 

And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 

From the tapering summit 
Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them; 

But there’s an anthem 
More dear to me: 

’T is the bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (“ Father Front ”). 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 

L’eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse 
ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: “Tou jours! 
jamais! Jamais! toujours!” — Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 

510 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 


And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night. 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say at each chamber-door, — 
“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

511 


OTHER POEMS 


In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roared; 

The stranger feasted at his board; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
O precious hours! O golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 

The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 

And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

All are scattered now and fled, 

Some are married, some are dead; 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

“Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? ” 


THE THINGS I MISS 


As in the days long since gone by, 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 

And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here! 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


THE THINGS I MISS 

An easy thing, O Power divine, 

To thank Thee for those gifts of Thine: 
For summer’s sunshine, winter’s snow, 

For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow. 
But when shall I attain to this — 

To thank Thee for the things I miss ? 

For all young Fancy’s early gleams. 

The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams, 
Hopes unfulfilled and pleasures known 
Through others’ fortunes, not my own. 
And blessings seen that are not given, 

And ne’er will be this side of Heaven. 

513 


OTHER POEMS 


Had I, too, shared the joys I see, 

Would there have been a Heaven for me? 
Could I have felt Thy presence near 
Had I possessed what I held dear? 

My deepest fortune, highest bliss, 

Have grown, perchance, from things I miss. 

Sometimes there comes an hour of calm; 
Grief turns to blessings, pain to balm; 

A Power that works above my will 
Still leads me onward, upward still; 

And then my heart attains to this — 

To thank Thee for the things I miss. 

Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 

A DAY 

I ’ll tell you how the sun rose, — 

A ribbon at a time, 

The steeples swam in amethyst. 

The news like squirrels ran. 

The hills untied their bonnets. 

The bobolinks begun. 

Then I said softly to myself, 

“That must have been the sun!” 

But how he set, I know not. 

There seemed a purple stile 
Which little yellow boys and girls 
Were climbing all the while 
514 


WAITING FOR THE BUGLE 


Till when they reached the other side, 

A dominie in gray 

Put gently up the evening bars. 

And led the flock away. 

Emily Dickinson. 

WAITING FOR THE BUGLE 

We wait for the bugle; the night dews are cold, 

The limbs of the soldiers feel jaded and old, 

The field of our bivouac is windy and bare, 

There is lead in our joints, there is frost in our hair; 
The future is veiled and its fortunes unknown 
As we lie with hushed breath till the bugle is blown. 

At the sound of that bugle each comrade shall spring 
Like an arrow released from the strain of the string; 
The courage, the impulse of youth shall come back 
To banish the chill of the drear bivouac, 

And sorrows and losses and cares fade away 
When that life-giving signal proclaims the new day. 

Though the bivouac of age may put ice in our veins, 
And no fibre of steel in our sinews remains, 

Though the comrades of yesterday’s march are not here, 
And the sunlight seems pale and the branches are sere, 
Though the sound of our cheering dies down to a moan. 
We shall find our lost youth when the bugle is blown. 

Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 


END OF VOLUME IX 


($t )t 0itoer?ibc pre?? 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 


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